


Terrible Lie

by taralkariel



Series: Road to War [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post CATWS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-03-31 05:34:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3966304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taralkariel/pseuds/taralkariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He barely survives the fall, but they find him and make him the perfect weapon. After being forced to fight his former best friend, he breaks free of his handlers and goes to find himself. With a little help, he gets revenge and ensures that they won't be able to take him again. His mission takes him to a museum, to abandoned bases, and finally back to Steve Rogers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hey, God, Why Are You Doing This to Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from the song of the same name by Nine Inch Nails.

 

The sky was white, far above his head.  Sometimes wisps of blue appeared between the clouds, but it was a grey day.  Not that there was much sky visible from his location.  He wasn’t dead, not yet, but it was only a matter of time.  The actual temperature was unknown, but it was certainly cold enough to snow, and he was soaking wet.  He’d pulled himself out of a river, he vaguely recalled.  There was something unpleasant, horrifying, about it, which he did not want to think about.  If he pressed himself, his brain skipped along to other thoughts and refused to focus on how he had gotten here.  That was okay, he decided.  It probably didn’t matter.

After a while, he didn’t feel cold anymore.  Or in pain.  Everything seemed very calm, and the earlier desperation he had felt seemed silly now.  There had been a mission, it was important, but now it had gone on without him.  He could just lie here, in the snow, and wait until it was all over.  There was no reason to worry.  He watched calmly as it began to snow, soft flakes landing on his face and coat and hand.  They didn’t melt.  Not even when they landed on his eyes, which he considered blinking, but didn’t always.

Suddenly, noise invaded the serenity of his mind.  It caused him to wince, closing his eyes at last.  A shadowy figure appeared above him, between him and the grey sky.  It moved close to his face, perhaps inspecting him, then shouted.  He winced again at the shout, wanting to push the figure away but unable to move his arms.  The figure disappeared, and he hoped it wouldn’t come back, that he could just be left alone to lie here.

He was somewhat disappointed when he felt himself being grabbed by the shoulders and dragged backwards onto a different surface from the snow-covered ground.  It was rough; wood, perhaps.  It started moving lightly through the snow, and a figure appeared, following.  It shifted in and out of his vision, but he was aware that the man was dressed as a soldier.  Russian, some part of his brain supplied irrelevantly.  They were taking him somewhere.  He didn’t know what he felt about that, so he closed his eyes instead.

 

He is aware of himself suddenly, shockingly.  Breathing comes in deep gasps, his chest heaving.  His body is restrained to a table and there is pain everywhere.  His voice does not work, though he tries to cry out, and the pain intensifies to a point before vanishing completely.  His eyes close again and he tries to return to his earlier calm.

 

When he becomes aware again, he finds that he is on his feet, surrounded by metal.  A small window is before his face, and is edged in ice.  The ice is melting, and he can feel the same happening on his flesh.  His body shakes and he focuses on the window, trying to make out the room beyond.  Before he can get more than the impression of a few men in white (lab coats?), the door is opened abruptly and he falls forward.  He hadn’t realized he was leaning on it.

Words float above his head as the men talk about him, but he can’t focus on what they are saying or what language they use.  He has landed on the cold concrete floor, on his side, and pulls his knees against his chest.  His right arm wraps around them.  His left he doesn’t think about.  The trembling is decreasing, though he is still wet and cold from the ice in the chamber.  Or was it from the snow at the base of a cliff?  Or from the river?  He doesn’t know, doesn’t care.  He wants to be warm again.

Arms wrap around him and haul him onto a platform of some sort; a gurney, maybe.  He allows himself to be stretched out, but then they begin to fasten straps across his person.  This causes him to react automatically and he struggles against them.  The words floating around increase in volume and insistence, and more hands appear to hold him down while he is restrained.  When these are secure, he gives up and lays back, staring at the light hanging from the ceiling perhaps ten feet above him.

His fingers flex against his leg as the men in coats walk around him and write things on clipboards.  Some are very excited, gesturing.  He waits patiently, some part of him insisting he do… something.  Escape, maybe?  He isn’t sure why, or where he needs to go.  But he shouldn’t be here, he is certain.  If he behaves, perhaps he will be able to take advantage of more lax surveillance.  He closes his eyes.

His eyes shoot open and he screams when the whirring of which he was vaguely aware settles against his arm and is clearly a bone saw.  He had taken care not to bump it, not to touch his left arm in any way, or allow it to be touched.  And now they are cutting at it.  The pain reaches his brain with explosive force and he loses consciousness.

 

Dark shapes flicker across his vision, moving between his closed eyelids and the light.  He is aware of their movement, of the noises they make for a while before his brain attempts to make sense of anything.  Something slows his thoughts and his reflexes, more than just the restraints attaching him to this place.  There is something else.  He feels… heavier, maybe.  The feeling is unsettling and he holds very still.  Industrial sounds greet him, and he is further confused.  What is going on?

The straps across him are unbuckled and he forces himself to stay relaxed, in hopes of convincing them, whoever they are, that he does not need to be tied down.  If they leave him unfettered, maybe he can fight against the odd heaviness and the presumably drug-induced lethargy to escape this place.  To go… somewhere.  To find someone.  Someone.  Someone who he followed, who gave him orders.  But not just a superior officer, a friend.  Someone he’d known his whole life.  His brow furrows as he presses his scattered thoughts.  Steve!  Steve Rogers, Captain America, he remembers suddenly.

His eyes open and he looks around, looking for Steve.  But, no, Steve wouldn’t be here.  Steve was where he was, before.  Before he fell.  Something motorized, but on tracks.  A train!  Steve was on a train.  So was he.  Their mission was there, for some reason.  But he fell.  Had they failed?  He didn’t know.  He had, he supposed.  Clearly, all of this is not part of the mission.  Whatever it was.  There are three doctors near his feet, standing close together and talking animatedly.  He can’t tell if there is anyone else in the room.  It is sparsely furnished.

One of the doctors moves closer, standing at his side and writing something.  Then he notices he is awake, begins gesturing and speaking gently to him.  Some part of his brain supplies that the man is speaking English, though in a thick accent, but the words do not catch onto anything and he doesn’t understand.  The man motions to his left side, smiling slightly, seemingly explaining something.  He lifts his hands and is surprised to have both again.  One is metal, though.  The man motions to him, to the arm, and talks more.  He glances toward the other two men, who are calm and seem only politely interested, and sees no one else in the room.

The metal arm moves when he tells it to.  It is heavy, but feels not unlike his original arm of flesh and blood.  He lifts his fingers and wraps them around the man’s throat, squeezing, and sits up.  Before he can get any further in his poorly-thought-out escape attempt, someone runs up and jams a needle in his chest.  A sedative, he thinks vaguely before everything evaporates like mist.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” a voice invades his consciousness.

At the sound of his name, he brings himself back, feeling like it is a great distance he must traverse.  He opens his eyes and sees a man bending over him, smiling at him.  A small man, with glasses.  A familiar small man with glasses.  He frowns, trying to follow his thoughts to find a previous time he has seen this man.

He is aware that the man has been talking to him, excitedly.  He gestures and smiles and seems very happy.  Frowning deeply, he forces himself to focus.  “You will be the new fist of HYDRA,” the man continues.

HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA.  That means something.  Something he doesn’t remember.  It isn’t good, he decides.  The name doesn’t make him feel good.  Unlike that other name, the one he thought of earlier.  Of that man he knew.  What was it?  Oh, yes, Steve.  Steve something.  Captain of something.  Rogers.  America.  That name makes him feel good.  That’s a good name.  HYDRA isn’t.

The little man in front of him has a name, too, that he feels he once knew.  He doesn’t now, though.  He frowns at him, wondering if he seems a bit older or if that is just his imagination.  The man is still talking.  He doesn’t listen, the words are meaningless.  They float passed him and he considers paying attention to them, but can’t seem to do so.

He becomes aware of the man being increasingly agitated.  He forces himself to focus again, frowning deeply as the man repeats himself.  Motions accompany the repetition, and he thinks perhaps he wants him to move his arm.  The new one, the one that isn’t real.  He hesitantly complies, noting with a hint of satisfaction how the little man moves back when he lifts it from the bed.  As before, it moves easily, though it is accompanied by a soft whirring.  He watches it, amazed that a hunk of metal could so closely resemble and replicate something as complicated as the human arm.

“You will be called the Winter Soldier,” the little man’s voice breaks into his thoughts.  Why this got through and the other things didn’t is a mystery.  The man shows him via a mirror at a careful distance that there is a red star on his new arm, and smiles again.  He just watches him, silently.


	2. Am I Not Living Up to What I'm Supposed to Be?

 

His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the metal seat on which he is sitting.  Another jolt of the vehicle causes him to clench his teeth, but he resists looking toward the driver.  He has not yet reached the beginning of his mission parameters, and doesn’t want to incur the displeasure of his handlers by reacting in a way they would not prefer.  The Winter Soldier follows orders, the Winter Soldier follows orders, the Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier does not deviate from those orders, he reminds himself.  He doesn’t know what constitutes deviation.

The vehicle stops at last, and he remains motionless.  Men in the front of the vehicle climb out and he waits while they walk around to open the doors to his left.  Now his mission starts, now he may move freely.  He swings himself easily out onto the packed ground on which they have stopped.  The men with him move back warily, watching him.  Turning back to the vehicle, he picks up the heavier weapons he had not worn on his person for the trip.  Then he faces the other men and waits.  They signal him to move, and he does so.

Their exact location is unknown to him; he doesn’t recall ever knowing where they are.  Sometimes he is given coordinates, but is usually brought close to where ever he needs to be.  They are on a dirt road surrounded by woods – fir trees – and clearly on mountainous terrain.  They climb higher, leaving the road and following a path through the trees.  It is large enough to be a driveway, perhaps.  Not another road, but more expansive than, say, an animal trail.  He pauses, brow furrowing, as he considers if he’s had another mission to give him this sort of information, or if it comes from somewhere else.

The others don’t notice his pause, and he hastens to continue, pushing the thought away.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  He pulls a knife out and twirls it through his fingers, feeling oddly agitated.  This makes the men ahead of him grow tense and uncomfortable, shooting him wary glances, but they do not speak.  They do not tell him he is deviating, so he continues.  The walk is long and uninteresting.

Finally, they come upon a small complex, nestled in a clearing.  There are four separate buildings, one clearly the main house.  It has a lot of windows to take in the view on the far side of the clearing, where there is a gap.  A cliff face, he thinks, though cannot be certain from here.  The other buildings are a barn, a guest house, and stables.

“Our last reports say he is in the barn,” one of the men says to him quietly.

They move to stand back, behind the trees, and allow him to make his way forward.  He does so, heading toward the barn.  His boots are heavy, but he treads lightly and carefully, no sound indicating his approach.  It is very quiet here.  Peaceful, even.  The feeling pulls at him, and he wonders why he has to do anything more than rest.  An intense heaviness hits him, and he thinks that he has not had a rest in a long time.  Has he ever rested?  He has waited – for briefings, for his arrival at target destinations, for debriefings – but he has not been allowed to truly rest.  But the Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier does not deviate.

When he reaches the barn, no other sound having reached his ears on the trip, he presses himself against the rough wood and listens, eyes scanning carefully for any movement.  At length, he moves to the door and wrenches it open.  Some animals therein are startled by his presence, and make distressed noises, but he does not see the man he was sent to find.  To kill.  He moves inside quickly and inspects the place.  The search proves fruitless, and he goes back outside.  He glances toward where the men who accompanied him are waiting, considering if he should return for further orders or if what they said was not an order.

The noise of the animals causes someone to turn a light on in the main house.  He decides it would not breach protocol to go check it out.  His movements are silent as he makes his way to the house, avoiding the large windows.  The sun is setting and he knows it will be difficult to make him out in the gloom, so long as he keeps away from direct light.  Following the northwest wall, he comes upon a side door and uses it to slip inside.  It was locked, but he knows how to get through locked doors.  Easier to do when he isn’t worried about detection, but a skill he possesses nonetheless.  He used to use it a lot when – when… He stills, thinking.  There is another door he remembers, one that was often locked and the key often lost.  And he broke in to help… someone.  Not to kill them.

He shakes his head insistently, pushing the thought away.  It doesn’t matter.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.  The door opens onto the kitchen, which is thankfully empty.  He follows the corridor to his right, heading toward where the light came on.  After a few yards, it opens onto a living area, with a large staircase and carved bannister leading to a second story.  The light was up there.  He waits, listening, at the bottom of the stairs for some time before he moves up them.  There isn’t much room to maneuver on them and he does not want to be trapped.

A bedroom is the source of the light.  It is early yet, he thinks, for going to bed.  But he isn’t sure.  When was the last time he went to bed?  Long ago, he decides.  In a place far from here.  It doesn’t matter, though, he has orders.  He pushes the door open the rest of the way, and lifts his rifle up to aim it, quickly scanning the room for the target.

The man he has been sent to kill is standing by the window, looking out.  When he hears the door, little sound though it makes, he turns.  All color fades from his face at the sight of him standing in the doorway, armed.  The man is small, blond, with blue eyes opened wide in a stricken look.  It is a look he has grown accustomed to seeing.  The man opens his mouth, his jaw works, but he does not scream or speak.  But something in him rattles the thoughts he has been having around in his brain, and he hesitates.

“Who are you?” the man stutters.

He blinks.  No one has asked him this question before.  He doesn’t know what the answer is.  “The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate,” he replies, uncertainly.

The man’s eyes widen, if possible, even more.  “You’re here to kill me?”

“Yes,” he replies, glad to know the answer.

The man gulps, then straightens up.  “Get on with it, then,” he says, stubbornly.

His brow furrows as he stares at the small man, the stubbornness and the stance and the hair and the eyes are all like – something.  Someone.  He doesn’t know.  But it’s important.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t –

“Have I met you before?” he asks.

The man frowns at him, confused.  Then a grim smile quirks on his face.  “I’m sure I’d remember you,” he answers.

He nods.  Of course he would.  There is no one else like him.  No one else to serve the Motherland like he does.  He is unique.  That’s why it’s so important that he let his handlers care for him.  That’s why he must always follow orders carefully.  It would be a terrible shame to lose him.

“I have to kill you now,” he says apologetically.

A pained look crosses the man’s face, but he nods.  “I knew they’d send someone,” he explains.

He wonders how he could know that.  Why he doesn’t seek to stop him, to delay the inevitable.  He clears his throat and fires, and the man drops.  It wasn’t him, he decides.  He was not the man he knew, somehow, though the resemblance was there.  He was just another target.  He has completed his mission.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  He should go back to his handlers now.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.

Instead, he takes a few steps forward to look down at the man he has just killed.  It was a clean shot, it killed him instantly.  Somehow, he feels relieved by that notion.  If he were to die, he thinks, he would want it to go fast.  He wouldn’t like waiting around for it to end.  Especially if the waiting were in agony.  The man’s eyes are open, staring unseeing, but his expression is otherwise rather peaceful, all things considered.  He shuts his eyes gently, thinking that it is not right to leave his eyes open.  Has he done this before?  Shut the eyes of those he’s killed?  Or is there usually too much destruction for that?

Visions of another small, blond man float in his mind as he stumbles back down the stairs and out the front door.  The stealth and precision of earlier is gone, and he struggles to keep himself upright and moving forward as feelings and sights press themselves heavily against him, in rapid succession.  He cannot make sense of things, and is somewhat relieved when he feels hands roughly grab him by the arm and drag him away.

He is aware of being loaded back in the vehicle.

He is aware of arriving back at base, and marched down to the room where he often waits.

He is aware of people standing around him, speaking insistently, but he can’t seem to listen.

He is aware of hands pushing his shoulders back onto a cold metal chair.

He is aware of metal restraints being lowered over his arms in several places.

He is aware of something whirring over his head, coming down.

He is aware of electrical sounds and sparks flying near his face.

He is aware of pain, deep and excruciating.

He is aware of his reaction – screaming and straining against the apparatus.

He is aware of nothing.


	3. Why Am I Seething With This Animosity?

 

They wake him like they always do.  He becomes aware of himself, surrounded by metal, melting ice shards sliding down his body as he begins to be able to move.  The door is opened.  Sometimes he catches himself before he falls, sometimes he doesn’t.  He is ignored until he is able to stand and move and stretch.  He always stretches.  People in lab coats, usually men, wander to and fro in the room and out the door.  Sometimes he goes out the door, too.  Sometimes he doesn’t.  If he goes out the door, he is dressed in gear and weaponry, and goes to kill.  If he doesn’t go out the door, he is usually dressed in tight-fitting black clothing and sent down the hall across the open space, into another open area.  On occasion, he is not dressed in any more than he was while frozen, and sits patiently while men work on him.  He doesn’t like those days.

Today, there is no gear waiting for him to dress, no official waiting to brief him, so he looks around for the tight-fitting black clothing, and is relieved to find it on the floor near his chamber.  He dresses himself quietly, then stands at attention and waits.  There are sensors attached to him that need to be removed, that he knows he should not remove.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  Not only in the field, though it is especially important then, but also in here.  The lab, he thinks.  That’s what it is called.

One of the men walks over to him and checks on the sensors, and on the screen that shows whatever it is they are sensing.  He waits.  When he is finished, he removes the sensors, which stings a little.  He prefers to be without them, though, so he doesn’t mind the momentary discomfort.  Not that he is allowed to mind any discomfort, of course.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.  Reacting to pain could be a deviation.  And will only bring more, later, if it affects the mission.  The Winter Soldier is punished if the mission is not successful.  The mission is always successful.

A man who is not wearing a lab coat enters the open space, coming from the side of the hallway that he has never gone down.  He speaks to the men in lab coats, quietly, not loud enough for him to hear, though all of them glance at him repeatedly.  The men in coats nod, agreeing with whatever has been said.  The other man walks over to him, and leads him to a chair near where the men were working.  They step back quickly when he approaches.  That is how people normally react to him.  That is how they are supposed to react to his presence.  The Winter Soldier follows orders, but the Winter Soldier is meant to inspire fear.  Those who do not give him orders are not as important, not as influential, as he is.

He sits in the chair, as expected.  The men in coats move closer again, working on the arm attached to his left side.  He looks away.  It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but thinking too long about his new arm leads him to think about his old one, and it is not a pleasant train of thought.  So he looks around the room, at the other man, at the chamber where he sleeps, at the chair where he is corrected, at the screens and apparatus that monitor his continued well-being.

The other man stands to the side, watching.  He doesn’t like being watched.  The man is not his superior.  He can’t give him orders.  He frowns at the man, who seems considerably started when he makes eye contact.  The man stops staring and moves away, out of his immediate field of vision.  He doesn’t turn his head to follow him.  They are adding new things to his arm today.  It feels heavier already.  The three men work diligently, talking all the while.  He understands their words, but pays no attention to them.  It doesn’t matter to him.

It is apparent when they are finished, as the men seem very excited.  They tell him to move his arm in certain ways, and he acquiesces.  They are pleased with themselves.  He continues to move the prosthesis, considering how he will have to compensate for the change when he is next in the field.  The weight difference is only slight, hardly noticeable, but he will have to take it into account when he uses it.

The man who does not wear a lab coat clears his throat, and the others turn to look at him.  “If he’s ready?” he asks, glancing behind him and shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“Yes, fine, you can take him,” one of the men in lab coats, clearly the senior, says impatiently.

Without making eye contact again, the other man motions for him to follow.  He slowly gets to his feet, unhurried, and walks behind him.  They go down the corridor, not out the door, as is expected.  The open space it leads to is covered in mats today.  Sometimes it has targets.  He sees a few of them in a pile at the far end.  That is good, he decides.  He will need to practice his aim with his modified arm.  The mats are for hand-to-hand combat, which he will also need to try.  Perhaps he always comes here after modifications.  He doesn’t know.

The man leading him comes to a stop at the edge of the mats, and stands at attention, clearly waiting for something.  Uncertainly, he goes to stand nearby, inwardly pleased at how this makes the man grow tense.  He waits, unmoving, for whatever reason he has been brought here.  As he does, he takes stock of the other man.  At five eight, one hundred seventy pounds, he is shorter and lighter.  Though he has clearly seen combat, and been trained, he would not present a threat if he were an opponent.  It would be easy to best him, and he hopes that someone else will come along to allow him to more properly test his arm.

Time passes.  How much is irrelevant, but he can feel his muscles growing stiff.  Eventually, he hears footsteps approaching, perhaps half a dozen.  They come from the other side, the side he has never been permitted to go.  Sometimes he goes out the door, sometimes he comes here, and sometimes he stays in the same room where he wakes.  But he never goes there.  Does he want to?  Probably not, he supposes.  If there was a purpose for him to do so, then he will receive orders.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  If not, then he won’t.  The Winter Soldier does not deviate.

A group of men dressed for combat enter the area on the far side.  They wear all black, most in varying amounts of body armor.  Pistols and rifles and knives arm them, perhaps more than he could face successfully.  But perhaps not.  He assesses them placidly, remaining absolutely still.  The man who brought him here jumps to attention when they enter, then walks to greet them.  He speaks to them, though he doesn’t make out the words.  When he is finished, they array themselves around the room, sneaking glances at him.  He waits.

“Alright, start one at a time so we can get him warmed up,” a newcomer, likely the senior officer, says.  He motions to one of the men, whose face briefly shows his displeasure at being volunteered, but walks toward the center of the mats.  “Soldier, engage training protocol alpha,” the man continues.

He frowns at him, glancing at his opponent.  Can he give him orders?  He doesn’t know him, doesn’t remember seeing him before.  But he clearly is high-ranking enough to command men, so perhaps he is his superior.  The man who is to fight him is taller, though only by an inch or so, and heavier, and is rapidly approaching, uninterested in his hesitation.  Remaining still, he waits until the man is very close, then springs forward, wrapping his metal fingers around the man’s upper arm and swinging him around once, then into the wall behind him.  The man’s own momentum helps, and he drops to his knees in pain, holding his head.

“Seems plenty warm to me,” one of the other men grumbles, sounding angry. 

The officer smiles grimly at him.  “You two, next.”

The man who questioned the order is one of them.  He moves toward the center of the mat, as is expected, and waits as they circle him.  They are no taller than he is, but both are considerably heavier.  He is not a large man, he knows, but has never lost in hand-to-hand combat.  Size isn’t everything.  He waits, watching them as they watch him, knowing that they will make a mistake.  Everyone does.  Everyone but him.  Still, the point of this is to test his arm, so he considers how best to do so.

To test its deftness, he takes a running start and then ducks, sliding on the ground passed one of the men, slipping his knife from his belt.  The men jump back, grabbing for their weaponry.  To test its accuracy, he tosses the knife into the air above him, catching it in a different grip when it comes back down, then throws it, striking one of the men squarely in the chest.  Training protocol alpha is never without casualties.

The men are upset now.  Perhaps they didn’t know what they stepped into.  The superior officer, snarling, orders them to all engage at once.  He is aware that the first man does not join in with this.  To evade the attack, he must use more than just his new arm, which is unfortunate.  But it does give him the practice necessary to adjust to moving with a slightly heavier appendage.  To test its strength, he crushes a trachea.  To test its flexibility, he steals another knife and twists it through the air with a practiced ease before driving it into another man.  Strength is further proven when he punches someone, and he drops like a stone.

“Enough!” the superior officer shouts.  “Training protocol alpha: deactivate.”

He placidly drops the knives he has taken, and stands very still amongst the men.  Only perhaps two are dead, he thinks.  The others are injured, unconscious, but not dead.  The point is not to kill anyone, in here, though it is accepted.  Sometimes his superiors grumble over how often those around him must be replaced.  But none have ordered him to stop, to engage in a different training protocol.

“Set those up,” the officer says to the man who was not in the fight.  He nods quickly, and goes to set up the targets.  “Take a weapon, Soldier.”

He selects a pistol from one of the men; a conscious one, who stares at him with wide eyes when he takes his weapon from its holster.  He looks as if he wants to protest, but does not, glancing at the bodies on the floor and at his superior.  Sacrifices for the Motherland are to be expected.  Does he not know?  He knows he has lost much to serve his country, but he has done great things.  Terrible things, perhaps, but necessary for his country’s survival.

The targets are ready.  He glances at the superior, who nods, then walks a few yards further away.  With careful aim, he gauges how different his arm feels and how it will affect his marksmanship.  Then he fires.  It is a little off, but not far.  He tries again, and again.  Eventually, the clip is empty, but he is not yet satisfied.  He fetches another weapon from another man, this one as intimidated as the first.  This clip is also emptied, and he looks at the targets for a long moment, before turning to the superior and nodding.

“Good,” the man says.  “Take him back and get him ready.  They’ve got something for him.  Then go find someone to clean up this mess,” he continues, addressing the first man.

He follows him back to the chamber where he wakes, pleased at the prospect of being able to field-test his arm so soon.  It will be very helpful in accomplishing his missions successfully.


	4. Hey God, I Think You Owe Me a Great Big Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps forward to after CATWS, where the rest of the story takes place (other than a few flashbacks). Thanks for the kudos!

 

Getting to the museum is difficult.  He isn’t all that adept at gathering detail on his own, but he can manage.  His handlers may have turned him into a ghost, but the fact that he was frozen between missions only partially influenced that reputation.  He was well-trained at infiltration and staying off the grid.  It wasn’t until recently that he had started being used to send a message.  Well, recently for him; such words become difficult to quantify when applied to his situation.  In any case, he has the requisite skills to gather the information he needs, but also has a significant amount of factors to cause him to deviate from his task.

The Winter Soldier follows orders, the Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.

Except what does he do without any orders?  What does he do when there is no one left to pull his strings?  Other than a man he doesn’t know, but some part of him insists that he does.

 

After he pulls the man, Steve?, from the river, he pauses on the bank to make sure he breathes.  Then he walks away.  He doesn’t know where he is going.  There was not an extraction plan for this mission.  Perhaps his masters did not expect him to survive, or they didn’t care.  Or assumed they would find him if he was successful.  He has failed the mission, though, so he does not want to return to them.  Has he ever failed before?  He doesn’t think so.  To have failed this mission, and so spectacularly, would make him at best an unreliable asset.  At worst, a liability.  He glances at the smoking wrecks in the river and decides he doesn’t want to discover which of those categories he will fall under if he returns.

So he doesn’t return, not the bank vault where he was kept or to the house of the man who gave him orders.  He disappears, perhaps not as thoroughly as he has been doing for the last unknown number of years, but well enough.  His clothes he switches out at the first opportunity for ones less devoted to combat.  Jeans and t-shirts are what people wear, so he gets himself a pair and a black shirt.  Other people without homes wear coats all the time, even when the weather is warm.  He gets himself a long-sleeved plaid shirt and a denim jacket.  Gloves are also necessary; his metal arm attracts too much attention.

He has seen a great deal of technological advancements in his time as a HYDRA agent.  Not that he was often trained on these, but a rudimentary understanding of his resources was necessary and encouraged.  It seems, though, that the rest of the world was not advancing quite so quickly in that department.  He sees other people missing limbs, wearing prosthetics.  But none are like his.  None so accurately represent the absent appendage.  He is unique, like he had been told all those years.

Eventually, his boots are replaced by tennis shoes, which are very common.  His beard grows and he does nothing to address it.  It masks his face well, with the benefit of not being an obvious mask.  Not like he had before.  Still, he feels better hiding more of his face using a baseball cap, especially as it keeps his hair back and out of his eyes.  People do not have their faces covered by their hair if they want to avoid detection.  It is somewhat counterintuitive, to cover something up in order for it to be noticed.  But it is the trend he has seen, at any rate.  And seems to hold true.

Food is not hard to come by in the nation’s capital.  There are numerous charities devoted to keeping the city’s homeless population from becoming too obvious.  For a while, he sleeps in a bed provided by one of these places, but then the nightmares come and that is no longer an option.  The meals are still available, and he usually does not search out any other means of sating his appetite, which is barely noticeable anyway.  He cannot recall eating when he was an asset, so it is an adjustment.  Everyone else eats, though, so he is sure he must.

Soon he acquires more clothes, feeling oddly pleased to be able to wear different things.  Sometimes he is able to launder his clothes, though not often.  Learning how to survive here takes a little while, a few weeks.  Perhaps it is the nightmares, or the fact that merely surviving is no longer taking up most of his energy, but he begins to consider what the man on the bridge said to him.  About knowing him his whole life.  When he spoke about the end of the line, that struck a chord somehow, something deep inside him that he hadn’t felt in a long time or possibly ever responded to the statement.  He doesn’t know why.  None of the nightmares have involved the man.

He begins to gather intel.  It is slow at first, looking at discarded newspapers or watching televisions that are set up in stores.  Sometimes the store owners drive him away, sometimes not.  He has always had a knack for remembering things, and the information he gathers is carefully packed away in his mind to be considered and combed through later.  In between advertisements and dramas, he finds that the event which brought him back into the world was a terribly significant one.  So much so that he does not at first realize that nearly every story he reads or hears is referring back to it.  Sometimes they refer to another event, something in New York, when discussing the one that happened here.

Captain America is not mentioned as often as he would like, and he commits to memory each new piece of information he learns about the man.  Very little of it sounds familiar, though some of it makes him feel it is false.  At first, he puts this to the general confusion he feels as a result of his conditioning, but then he begins to suspect that, somehow, he knows more than the general populace.  On very rare occasion, the Howling Commandos are mentioned, including Captain America’s best friend since childhood, Bucky Barnes.  Old, grainy photographs will, on even rarer occasion, accompany these stories.  He stares hard at them, but can’t make sense of their contents.  Some other option must be found.

 

There is a homeless community in this city, as with most cities.  Like any other community, there are people who are kind and people who are cruel.  He avoids everyone anyway, as much as possible.  He doesn’t want to get involved, to let people get close to him.  He can’t remember a time where he was with similar people, with peers, and only remembers superiors who could give him orders and others to whom he paid little attention.  Putting everyone in the latter category seems like the best option at this point.

He is homeless by choice.  Perhaps some of them are the same, but he doesn’t think very many prefer this.  He knows that he will not be noticed, not be found, either by his former masters or … whatever word describes Captain America.  Steve Rogers.  The second name makes something buried deep ache, so he tries not to think about it.  Better to call him Captain America.  That’s what everyone else does.  In any case, some missions he can barely recall involved lying low like this for a few days.  Not as long as he has, now, but he knows it is a good way to avoid people.

Even here, though, they talk about Captain America and the fall of SHIELD.  He listens, but doesn’t speak, taking care not to look too interested.  The Winter Soldier is not mentioned, somewhat to his surprise.  He supposes that is a good thing, but he waits, wanting to know what they might say of him.  Perhaps Captain America keeps it quiet.  He wishes he wouldn’t.  He wants to know how the world will view him.  But he isn’t about to come forward for that gratification.  So he waits.

Sometimes he does odd jobs here and there and gets some cash.  His labor is off the books, he is told, which makes him smile grimly.  It always has been, he thinks but doesn’t share with his temporary employer.  He doesn’t take many of these jobs, and never from the same person twice.  Avoiding notice is paramount to his current mission objective.  The Winter Soldier follows orders, the Winter Soldier doesn’t – but, no, he doesn’t have orders now.  He has made them up himself.  The thought makes him uncomfortable and he pushes it away.  It is better like this, he convinces himself.  Better than being their asset, their puppet, always blindly doing what they told him, believing their apparent lies.

That they were lying to him can no longer be doubted.  He has gathered sufficient evidence to indicate that the point of his more recent missions was not loyalty to his country, not fighting a terrible threat, but to control the whole world.  The man, Pierce?, had said he’d shaped the century.  That might technically be true, but what did he know about what he was doing?  Not much.  He was a weapon to be aimed, knowing nothing and giving little thought to how his successful completion of the mission parameters would affect anyone; other than the target, of course.

Captain America was probably not lying to him, then.  His devotion to establishing the truth, though it cost his own life, is admirable and somewhat convincing.  But HYDRA has always been full of zealots willing to lose their lives for their cause.  So he couldn’t be sure.  He still can’t, though what he knows about the man from news reports certainly indicates that he is the more likely party to be truthful.  Accepting what he’d claimed is a challenge and leads to much larger questions about what he should do now.  If he was just an agent for HYDRA, he can defect here and just live out his days in quiet isolation.  He can still do that even if he has a different history, but it will be harder.

What he needs is definitive proof.  He goes looking for it, in libraries and book stores and anywhere else containing information from seventy years ago.  This is how he discovers the museum, with an exhibit wholly devoted to Captain America.  He has to go, there is no doubt in his mind.  He finds the right building and does recon a few times before he decides it is safe.  It is not like anyone would expect to find him there.  He hopes that no one expects him to have remained in the city this long.

He wanders the other exhibits that lead to the one he wants, vaguely interested in some of them but unable to focus.  Eventually, he finds himself staring at a mural of Captain America, spanning an entire wall.  He clenches his hands inside his pockets and forces himself to continue.  He reads the information about the Captain, Steve Rogers, and his jaw tightens when he sees how the man originally looked.  He’d thought he was smaller.  The realization hits hard and he takes a deep breath, certain that he knew the man before he became a super soldier; why else would the smaller version seem so familiar?  In all his information-gathering, the weak physical condition of Captain America before he was Captain America is rarely referenced and never pictured.

Having thus convinced himself of what he needed to know, he ambles further into the exhibit, considering turning around and forcing himself not to walk with the same determination he usually did as an asset.  But then he sees something that stops him in his tracks.  Since he left Steve on that river bank, he has seen his own face many times.  He did not often see himself before, except in reflection before he was frozen.  But now he has regularly checked to be certain he is not easily recognizable.  Mirrors hang in many places these days, and his reflection is hard to avoid.  That it would be even harder here is not what he expected.

There is a display devoted to him, with a picture of his face several feet tall.  He is aware that there is information, a biography, next to the rendered photograph, but he cannot tear his eyes from his own face, as it undoubtedly is.  He stares, open-mouthed, for a moment, before clenching his jaw.  If there was any doubt left as to whom he was and what they took from him, it is gone now.  All that remains is what he is going to do about it.


	5. Hey, God, I Really Don't Know What You Mean

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

He forces himself to focus on the present, and reads the information presented on the display.  Then he walks slowly around the rest of the exhibit, reading all the information he can.  He pauses again when he sees a film strip of himself and Captain America, Steve, laughing together.  He stares at it for some time, his jaw set, as he considers who that person was.  Who both of them were.  Somehow, he can’t picture the man he fought on the bridge, and in the belly of the helicarrier, reacting like that again.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

His feet find their way out of the exhibit, and he stares intently at the sidewalk as he makes his way from the museum.  There are too many people around, his thoughts are scattered and confusing, and he is growing increasingly agitated.  His fingers are clenched tightly into fists inside his pockets.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Once, he had a home and a family.  Siblings, parents.  Are any of them still alive?  Does it matter if they are?  They were taken from him, along with everyone else.  He doesn’t think they would know him now, even if they’re around.  Will he recognize any of them?  Unlikely.  He barely recognized Steve, who had the dubious fortune of only aging a couple of years in his absence.  There is no reason to look into the existence of a family.  What happened to him is unreal, extraordinary, not something one discusses over Thanksgiving dinner.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

He’s worked alone for a long time.  Seventy years, apparently.  But, before, he had comrades.  Brothers-in-arms.  They had each other’s backs, they fought together.  It was more than just Steve – the Howling Commandos were a great team.  And then he fell away from them and has been alone ever since.  Perhaps he always worked better alone, though.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Bucky Barnes was commended for his service, his sacrifice.  The Winter Soldier was also lauded, but in a different way.  His reputation spanned decades and continents, and he never failed a mission.  Except the last one.  The museum, the news reels, wash away the unpleasantness of war to describe heroes who served their country without specifics.  If there are annals concerning the Winter Soldier, he can’t help but think it would be more truthful about his purpose.  Bucky Barnes certainly killed people, certainly fought and destroyed other young men with less reason to be involved than he had.  Perhaps it was better, as the Winter Soldier.  His targets were carefully chosen, collateral damage rarely encouraged, and usually higher-ranking officials.  Certainly higher ranking than a sergeant.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Whether or not the lives he stole were more justified after he was captured, he was still a prisoner of war.  One finally freed.  What do other prisoners do once freed?  He doesn’t know.  None, he thinks, have lost quite so much as he has.  He has done things, horrible things, his hands are covered in the blood of his own countrymen.  He isn’t Steve, he isn’t Captain goddamn America, but he knows he served his nation loyally and proudly before he was taken.  Then he served her enemy, with ruthless efficiency.  The star on his shoulder is hateful to him, marking him for what he was.  What he refuses to be again.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Finally, he finds himself back in the abandoned building he has been using most often.  He tries not to stay in the same place more than a few nights in a row, but has returned here a couple of times.  He doesn’t want to, anymore.  It’s time to move on.  This city has offered all it could, so he will go.  Somewhere else.  He doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter.  He will continue to keep Steve from finding him, though.  Someday, perhaps, he will reunite with the man who was once his friend.  But not yet.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Bucky Barnes is gone.  Bucky fell off a train and died.  What his essentially reanimated corpse did in the subsequent decades should not color his memory, should not be considered the acts of the same man.  Bucky was a hero, the Winter Soldier was a nightmare.  Bucky influenced generations with his noble sacrifice; the thought makes him smile coldly.  The Winter Soldier inspired no one, nothing but fear.  Steve is a fool for thinking he can bring him back.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

He packs up his possessions.  They were untouched despite his absence for a few hours.  He has a reputation, even here.  Further evidence of the need for relocation.  It is strange to have things, possessions, that are devoted to survival, to life, not death and destruction.  Going out on a mission always required his person to be bristling with weaponry.  Not that he needed it.  His metal arm could go a long way toward getting most jobs done.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

Once packed, he begins to walk.  A car is an option, but he’s in no hurry, and his path will be sufficiently populated to serve his purposes.  He isn’t sure he knows how to drive, though he supposes this would be an oversight on HYDRA’s part.  Being able to pilot most vessels, at least in a rudimentary sense, was deemed a necessity by whomever it was who oversaw his programming.  So presumably driving a car would be simpler.  But avoiding attention is paramount to his current mission (the Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate), and walking is the easiest solution.

 

Bucky?

 

Steve’s voice was soft, and he slowly rose from his defensive stance.  He stared at the other man, mouth hanging open.

 

Who the hell is Bucky?

 

He didn’t know the name, but it struck something.  Something he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he’d immediately aimed his weapon.  Targets were not supposed to talk, were not to be considered, were not supposed to make him feel something unfamiliar.  Whatever this one said might be rather different from the usual pleas and screams people uttered when about to die, but that didn’t change his mission.  It was irrelevant, he convinced himself.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.

Except then he’d been kicked, and perhaps that jarred loose something, because he had hesitated before attempting to fire again.  Then the woman had fired on him, and he knew he was outmatched.  Or perhaps not.  But men were coming and could finish the mission.  Strange thoughts were creeping just outside his vision and he struggled to focus.  So he went back to base.  Back to the bank vault where they tried to erase him, tried to fix his malfunctioning.

But he wasn’t malfunctioning.  He was remembering himself.  And they couldn’t stop that, not again.  Not when Steve was so willing to do everything in his power to return his friend to the land of the living.  And so he is returned.  And he owes Steve everything.  Anything is better than returning to that horrible existence.  Now, he isn’t in pain all the time.  He doesn’t have to repeat orders constantly to keep from deviating, from being punished.  He doesn’t have to be strapped down and have his soul ripped from him.  He’s free.  But there are things he must do, must reclaim, before he can go be friends with a man he barely recalls, a man who has been the hero of a nation for seventy years.


	6. Seems Like Salvation Comes Only in Our Dreams

He walks for a long time.  It takes several days to reach his destination.  At night, he finds somewhere with few people to sleep.  Sometimes he has to take a motel room, lacking any other options where he can safely let his guard down for a few hours.  Still, he can go many miles before he becomes fatigued enough to stop.  Food is a little harder to come by without attracting attention, but he manages.  He follows the main roads, but keeps to the fields and forests on either side as much as possible.  Sometimes he cannot avoid it and knows that he makes a conspicuous figure, marching along the side of the highway.  It being summer, though, it is not as noticeable as it might be in other weather.

Sometimes people slow down, perhaps to offer him a ride.  He always declines, and does his best to look polite, nonthreatening, and not worth remembering.  He has no idea how successful he is at those things, but the people usually smile hesitantly at him and then pull away.  He doesn’t want to be trapped in a vehicle with anyone, regardless of their intentions.  Just the thought of it distresses him.

Finally, he reaches his destination: Brooklyn, New York City, New York.  Where he grew up, apparently.  Where he spent most of his life.  He wanders aimlessly, searching for some indication that he truly used to live here.  Streets are unfamiliar, stores unrecognizable.  He walks in search of something whose existence he questions.  Is there enough of Bucky Barnes left in him for this place to have meaning?  Or is he just the Winter Soldier now?

It is mid-afternoon when he arrives.  The day wanes as he searches.  If his former addresses are known to the world, they were not prominently displayed in the museum.  Even though Steve Rogers is from here, nothing indicates the exact location of his childhood home.  He searches, but moving without a definite purpose, a physical goal, is difficult and causes him to clench his teeth and frown deeply.  When the sun is setting, he decides his search can be put off until the morning.  As a man alone, somewhat bedraggled, and possibly lost, he may be viewed as an easy target to the more desperate people of this city.  He is certainly not an easy target, but wants to avoid attracting any attention, so it would be best to avoid any conflicts.

He chooses a hotel at random, using the money he has left from the odd jobs he did in D.C.  It’s a cheap place, the kind that doesn’t ask questions, so it doesn’t make a significant dent in his financial resources.  He buys himself dinner, also cheaply, and settles in his room.  There is a television, an instrument with which he is somewhat familiar.  He turns it on and watches for a little while before deciding he is tired enough to sleep.

Carefully, he turns off the television and moves around his room, listening hard and peering out the window with his back pressed against the wall beside it.  Determining that there are no imminent threats, he removes one of the knives from his person and tucks it under his pillow, then carefully places extra towels and clothes over all the extraneous lights in the room: the clock, the LED on the television, etc.  Satisfied, he takes a shower before climbing into bed.  The sheets are cool and pleasant against his clean skin, and he contemplates whether or not the mattress will be too soft for him to bear.  If it is, he will have to sleep on the floor, and he’d rather know that now than wake up in the middle of the night to move.  With a deep sigh, he decides he’s quite comfortable, and has no intention of moving any time soon, so he slips off to sleep.

 

He stepped lightly over the wreckage from the car, pressing his hand against the large gash on his leg, at attempt to staunch the blood.  He swore deftly at the driver, whose unconscious-possibly-dead body lay nearby.  An explosion to his left knocked him off his feet and he swore again, though more quietly this time.  Ducking behind the debris around him, he pulled his knees up against his chest and took a few deep breaths.  Something was wrong.

He looked down at his arms and was surprised to find that one wasn’t metal.  In awe, he lifted it up in front of his face and turned it around, ignoring the continuing explosions around him.

“Bucky!” a voice called him, and he looked up in confusion.  There was a group of men, shadowy men, whom he could barely make out a few yards away.

“Stay back!” he answered, motioning toward the debris.

Somehow, something struck his arm, his left, and the pain was excruciating.  He cried out in agony, but, when he looked down, it had been replaced by the familiar metal one.  The pain went on and on, though, and he scrambled backwards as if he could escape it.

“Sergeant Barnes,” a different voice said, coming from behind him.

He whirled around, getting to his feet and setting his jaw against the fresh pain that washed over him at the gesture.  A little man in a lab coat was smiling down at him, standing on the wreck of the car.

“Making weaponry is my specialty,” the man continued, grinning, the smile too wide for his face.

“I’m not a weapon,” he asserted, but his voice faltered.

The man laughed.  “No?  You’ve been a weapon for years.  I’m just making you better.”

“Why?” he asked, angrily.

The man motioned to the shadowy figures, who continued to whisper ‘Bucky’ toward him, but he couldn’t make out any faces.  “Because you want to be the best,” the man said, matter-of-factly.

“No, I don’t!” he snarled in response.  But it was a kneejerk response.  He paused, leaning back to consider.

The man smiled.  “You served your countrymen well.  Now you will serve us.”

“Who?” he whispered, vaguely aware that the explosions had ceased.

“Us,” another man said, stepping forward out of nowhere, his pristine suit at odds with the destruction around him.

“No,” he answered, a little more forcefully.  “I won’t finish the mission.”

Pierce smiled at him, a much more unsettling expression than was on the other man’s face (Zola, maybe).  “Of course you will.  The Winter Soldier follows orders.”

“The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate,” he answered automatically, before pulling back abruptly.  “No!  That’s not true.  I don’t have orders anymore.  I don’t have to follow you.”

“No, you don’t, but you will.  What else can you do?  Everyone you knew is dead.  Everyone but Captain Rogers.  And he’s getting so tired, so tired of being a man out of time.  Don’t you think he’d be happy to be with his friends again?” Pierce asked, waving a hand to the shadowy figures, who suddenly appeared fully.  The Howling Commandos, with Steve.  They seemed to be welcoming him, patting him on the back and grinning.  Steve was smiling, too, like he had on those news reels.  Not like he did anymore.

“No,” he said again, uncertainly.

Pierce patted him on the shoulder, the right one.  “He’ll be happier.  And then you can join all of them when you’ve finished the great work you’ve been doing.  Don’t you want to be able to tell them what the Winter Soldier can really do?”

“I…  I’m not him anymore.”

“Not Bucky?  No, definitely not.  He’s been gone for seventy years.  But you are the Winter Soldier.  You always have been; you always will be.  It is what you were meant to do.”

He snorted, glaring.  “What you meant me to do,” he corrected angrily.

The smile faded from Pierce’s face.  “Do you think he’s going to welcome you back with open arms?  You nearly killed him.  And you’ve killed plenty of people, in horrible ways.  Even if he accepts you, do you honestly think there is a place for you in this world?  We understand you, we’ve taken care of you for years.  We don’t want any harm to befall you, and the rest of the world isn’t going to understand.  Come home, Soldier.  Let us take care of you again,” he said soothingly.

He glanced from Zola, still grinning, to Pierce, to the Commandos, still laughing and happy some ways away.  He swallowed hard.  Then he punched Pierce in the face.  He went down immediately, and he turned and grabbed Zola by the neck, flinging him across the debris-laden ground.  It wiped the grin off his face at last.  Setting his shoulders, he walked toward the man, intending to take care of him first.

“You think more violence is going to endear you to your former friends?” Pierce mocked, voice growing higher in pitch.

He paused for a moment, glancing back.  “Yes,” he answered, and continued forward.

“Stop him,” Pierce ordered calmly, and arms suddenly took hold of his shoulders, pulling him back.  He looked up, shocked to find the Howling Commandos surrounding him, dragging him backwards.

“No,” he gasped, then began to struggle.  “Please, no,” he cried, as he felt himself being placed in a metal chair.  He sought Pierce again, who was standing calmly nearby as the Commandos strapped him into the chair.  “Please, anything but this, please don’t take everything from me,” he begged desperately.

“I’m sorry, Soldier, but you’re getting upset and we want to help you relax.  Nothing’s going to hurt you.  It’s for your own protection,” Pierce explained gently.

The machine was turned on and he screamed and screamed.

 

His body is covered in a cold sweat and his throat aches from screaming.  He sits up abruptly, throwing the blankets from himself, then jumps out of bed and over to the window, staring back as though he expects to find the metal chair sitting there.  Seeing nothing but a small hotel room and a disheveled bed, he begins to calm down.  He breathes deeply, heart pounding loud enough to seem to echo across the room.  When he can, he climbs back onto the bed, but sits lightly, and turns on the television.  Eventually, its noise drowns out that which is in his head, and he manages to sleep again.


	7. I Feel My Hatred Grow All the More Extreme

Some of his dreams are true, some of them are not.  Parts of them are memories, but he knows they are often twisted and confused.  He is relatively sure that the crash at the beginning of the nightmare actually happened, when he was on a mission as the Soldier, but the rest was likely fabrication.  He can’t recall either Pierce or Zola entertaining particularly long conversations with him.  They might try to convince him, but there are more effective methods than verbal persuasion if he isn’t responding.  Wasn’t responding, he corrects himself.  It’s over now, Zola is certainly dead.  Pierce was reported missing on the news, so may be as well.

There are few nights he doesn’t wake up screaming.  One of the reasons he has to make sure no one is nearby when he sleeps.  Such disturbances are not the kind of thing that avoids attention, which is always his focus.  He knows that people are searching for him, more than just Steve.  HYDRA may have been revealed and partially destroyed with SHIELD, but he is far too valuable an asset for them to let him go.  Particularly given the loss of the helicarriers.  He’s the best assassin they have at their disposal, or would be, if they could find him.

It’s possible, even likely, that whatever remains of SHIELD is also searching for him.  It makes it that much more important not to allow anyone to witness his metal arm.  The rest of him is easily disguisable, and difficult to notice, but he is not aware of anyone else with that kind of prosthetic.  So he wears long sleeves and gloves and is careful not to allow anyone to touch him.  He doesn’t know how noticeable it is to touch, but always errs on the side of caution.

 

After he gets up, he does what he can to obscure evidence of his presence in the room, then takes a portable breakfast from what’s provided in the lobby before continuing his search from the day before.  As he walks, he considers his dreams and tries to piece things together based on what the museum exhibit and his other research suggested.  Some of it was likely exaggerated, if not outright propaganda, so he wants some indication of the truthfulness from his own memories.

Of course, his own mind is not a particularly reliable source at this point.  Everything is jumbled.  He knows that Pierce and Zola were not around at the same time, at least not giving him orders at the same time.  Whether or not they knew each other is a mystery.  Perhaps they did, but he doesn’t think he ever saw them together.  Not that it matters.  The version of Steve from his dream was the skinnier version, which he knows is not the one that went to war and formed the Howling Commandos.  But apparently it is the version with which he is most comfortable.

Searching the streets of Brooklyn takes all day.  He is unhurried; he has nowhere he needs to be.  Nothing rings any bells, at least not in a way that is obvious.  Some streets give him pause and he stares down them intently, but nothing concrete enters his thoughts regarding if he’s been here before.  It starts to look much like any other city, at least on the ground, and he wonders if he wasted his time coming here.

As much as he knows there is nothing he is supposed to be doing, or places he is supposed to be going, he finds it difficult to entertain the thought of wasting time.  He wonders if Bucky was similarly motivated or if that was trained into him by HYDRA.  It wouldn’t be useful to have their prize weapon spending his precious time out of cryo for anything that wasn’t benefiting the nation.  Or HYDRA, at least.  He often catches himself walking with purpose, and must slow down and amble along to avoid attention.

Eventually, he finds himself at a large cemetery.  A large historic cemetery.  He pauses outside, frowning up at the sign and shuffling his feet uncertainly.  Having been gone from here for seventy years, he reminds himself, this wouldn’t be an unreasonable location to look for clues about his past.  Not that he expects them to be particularly meaningful at this point.  He doesn’t remember any names, except Steve’s.  And his own, perhaps.

Still, he forces himself to go through the gates and walks up and down the somber streets.  It’s peaceful here, which is pleasant.  Keeping a calm and steady pace is easier.  He reads over the names and dates on the headstones placidly, without paying much attention.  It is a huge cemetery and he is there for some time, a few hours, and considering whether he should just leave when he sees something that makes him stop.  It’s a modest gravestone, not as noticeable as some of the others, but with a matching one beside it.  Joseph Rogers and Sarah Rogers.  He frowns deeply at it, trying to force his brain to produce the relevance of those names.  Though he is pretty sure he can guess.

Joseph is not familiar, but Sarah is.  Sarah was Steve’s mom.  She died a few years before the war, he remembers suddenly.  She always wore an apron, and usually a tired smile.  Finding enough shifts at the hospital to support herself and her son, especially given his medical bills, was difficult for her.  Some part of him had always admired her persistence, a trait he’d also admired in Steve.  They were tirelessly dedicated.

He takes a wavering step back, instinct causing him to glance around quickly to be sure his momentary weakness had not been noticed.  No one is near enough to pose a threat.  He tentatively reaches out with his right hand and touches the stone, wiping off some of the grime gently.  Biting his lip, he considers whether or not he really wants further proof from his own memories.  It isn’t going to be pleasant.

After a few long moments, he forces himself to keep moving.  Further away, unsurprisingly, is a grave to Steve Rogers.  It is much richer and more prominent than the one for his parents.  Somehow, it is comforting to know it is empty.  Steve is alive, location unknown, but alive.  That is good.  He continues walking, and is grimly amused to find a headstone of his own.  It is not particularly noticeable and does not laud him as being the famous Howling Commando, though it does list his military service.  He wonders who had caused it to be there.  Unlike many of the other headstones, it does not describe whom he had left behind.  But surely he’d left someone?

The information at the museum stated he was the eldest of four.  He is perplexed to find that the fact doesn’t ring any bells.  Some part of him remembers Steve, mainly from shortly before the war.  No memories have surfaced regarding his own family.  He bites his lip, staring down at his gravestone.  No inscription of a grieving sibling is mentioned, and he wonders if he could possibly have outlived them.  Well, no, he’s almost certainly done that now, but if it were possible that Bucky did, too.

For some reason, the thought twists at him, making him grimace.  The not knowing is always worse, he’s decided.  Did Bucky lose his family before, or were they another thing HYDRA took away when they made him what he is?  The distinction seems vitally important all of a sudden.  He rocks back and forth on his heels, wracking his brain to either produce an answer or suggest a way to find the answer.

After a few moments, he calms himself, and decides searching the graveyard would not be a bad plan.  Now that he has a goal in mind, he strides forward more quickly, more focused.  Perhaps not as reverent and quiet as one would expect in a place like this, but it feels good to walk with purpose again.  His life for the last few weeks has involved far too much aimlessness for his comfort.

He searches for any markers with the surname Barnes.  It’s not an uncommon name, so he finds a few.  Each time, he stops and stares at it for a while, trying to deduce from the dates and from the names if they were related to him or not.  Some might be, but are clearly too old.  Grandparents of his, perhaps.  Or perhaps of no relation at all.  His teeth are clenched and he is growing frustrated.  He needs answers, and this clearly isn’t working as well as it could be.

Finally, he comes to a stop, staring hard at a gravestone.  Rebecca Barnes Proctor.  Rebecca Barnes.  Rebecca.  Becca.  He closes his eyes, remembering.  She was his little sister.  He took care of her.  She was pretty, with long dark hair and bright blue eyes.  She liked to bake and laughed a lot, even when food was hard to come by.  The date of her death shows she has been gone only a few years.  A few short years earlier, and he would have been able to see her again.  Maybe talk to her again.  One last time.

What would they say?  He chides himself, and forces his eyes open.  What does he possibly have to talk about with an old woman?  Why would she want to talk to him, more importantly?  As far as she knew, her brother had died a hero.  There is no reason to reveal the truth, to her or any other family members.  He’s already decided that.  He’s being foolish, sentimental.  If he really wants someone to talk to, he knows there is a man searching for him, right now.  He just has to come out of hiding.  He isn’t ready for that.  Not yet.  Not yet.  He can wait.  Both of them can wait, a little longer.

With a deep breath, he turns away from his sister’s grave and walks out of the cemetery.  He doesn’t worry that his pace is too focused, too determined, to maintain the pretense of a casual observer.  It doesn’t matter.  He needs to get out of here, back to the streets of Brooklyn.  Or, really, why stop there?  Bells have been rung here, but he isn’t sure he wants any more of his memories from his past life returning.  Either past life.  Just continuing to move forward would be preferable.

The facts indicate that he was devoted to his family, and Steve was just part of the family.  Remember Steve was painful enough, especially given the circumstances.  What if he has been sent after others he knew while he was the Soldier?  The Winter Soldier follows orders.  The Winter Soldier doesn’t deviate.  He’s never failed a mission, or so he’s been told.  If he was sent to kill anyone from his former life, he was certainly successful.  And can he really deal with that kind of knowledge now?  The fact that he almost killed Steve upsets him, keeps him awake long hours into the night.  If he’d finished that mission…  Well, the thought is unbearable.

Move forward, move forward, he repeats to himself.  And the best way to do that is to destroy what’s behind him.


	8. Hey, God, Can This World Really Be As Sad As It Seems

Slowly, he lowers himself as far as he can, then releases the last rung of the ladder and drops silently onto the concrete below.  He is in a corridor, five feet wide with a vaulted ceiling.  It is lit every few feet by a dim yellow light fixed into the concrete above.  It does not espouse the sleek curvature of most SHIELD bases.  Or HYDRA bases.  Whatever they are now.  This one is old, old enough to be thought unused, abandoned for decades.  He doesn’t think that is an accurate assessment.

Listening carefully, he moves as quietly as possible westward down the hallway.  The scenery does not change for several yards, at which point he reaches a junction with another hallway.  The intel he’d gathered from previous locations did not account for this, and he pauses uncertainly.  A cursory glance in either direction gives no hints and he curses under his breath.  Then he checks his weaponry cache and decides he can handle anything he might come across, regardless of which way he goes.  Ignoring the new hallway, he continues to follow the initial one as best he can, scratching a small groove into the wall on the way he came, so he’ll know which way to go when he leaves.

Several minutes pass, which he counts off in his head.  It’s a habit that has served him well for a long time.  A very long time, he supposes.  After close to four minutes, he finds what he was searching for.  There is a bank of computers, the old kind that takes up a large room.  And he has found a large room.  It is nearly fifty feet across, and full of machinery.

Pressing himself against the wall at the end of his corridor, he listens carefully.  There is the occasional echo of something disturbed in the large chamber, but it is nearly silent.  Satisfied, he moves softly forward, taking care not to make any more noise than is necessary.  His current location is elevated a few feet above the rest of the room, with a ramp to his left, and databanks in front of him.  He moves forward and ducks behind these, scanning what he can see before making his way down the ramp.

The computers, as they clearly are, show no movement.  It is likely they haven’t run in years, decades.  Newer models have more user-friendly interfaces, but also feature better security.  He hasn’t been able to get the information he wants from most of the other bases he has visited.  Stealthily visited.  He doesn’t think anyone has noticed his presence in any of them, and certainly not enough to be following him.  Still, being out in the open, not laying low like he had planned, is stressful.  People are looking for him.  People he doesn’t want to be found by.  But sitting around and waiting, hiding, was no longer an option.  He needed to do something.

So, here he is, halfway around the world, doing something.  Something stupid, probably.  But information on him is rare, and hard to come by.  The museum and most modern representations have a different story to tell than he remembers.  They speak of heroes and greatness and sacrifice, but he knows only of the last one.  Well, Steve was certainly a hero, but not in the way they present him.  They ignore the reality and choose to focus on propaganda.  And Steve’s actions since he woke up just make him more of a myth, so he can hardly blame them.

In any case, information on Bucky Barnes is limited and whitewashed.  Information on the Winter Soldier may be more trustworthy.  Scientists were, after all, attempting to make a super soldier of him, so someone surely recorded all of the steps it took to turn him from a wounded WWII soldier into one of the greatest assassins in history.  And he wants to know what that was.

Checking the doorway again, he turns on the machinery.  Watching the tapes spin is somewhat mesmerizing, and he must wait a while for the system to boot up.  He supposes, from what he’s seen, that it’s unfortunate HYDRA did so much work in the former Soviet Union.  The computers available in the West were better.  Which brings the question of where his arm came from, since he can’t recall it looking particularly different at any point.  It must have, though, because the current one is better than really any technology he’s come across now, in the twenty-first century.

Finally, the screen prompts him to enter a command.  He tentatively types his codename and waits, feeling a significant sense of relief when several files are brought up.  Patiently, he searches for a way to get a physical copy of the information; reading it and trying to memorize it here would not be ideal.  There is a printer, fortunately, so he types the appropriate commands.  Computers were not something he was trained in particularly well, but he was made familiar enough to be able to conduct his missions successfully.  So he knows how to obtain intel from most of them, as long as it’s not too carefully protected using modern methods.

While he waits for it to print, he stares at the screen thoughtfully, wondering what else the data banks might contain.  Shrugging to himself, he types Steve Rogers.  Nothing.  Captain America.  Still nothing.  He frowns, feeling oddly disappointed.  Natasha Romanoff, he attempts, remembering the woman who had been with Steve on the bridge.  Nothing.  His brow furrows as something in the back of his mind forces him to focus.  Natalia Romanova, he tries.  Success.  More information on her is provided than was on the Winter Soldier.  The Black Widow, he reads, raising an eyebrow.  A picture shows it is the same woman, so he decides to print this off as well.

Perhaps it is foolish, but he is interested in finding out about how things have been for Steve since he was unfrozen.  He reasons that this is logical, since he will eventually seek the man out, and would want to be prepared for the other people in his life.  The Avengers are discussed at length in a variety of news sources, at least in the United States.  They are mentioned from time to time over here, especially in light of recent events.  Much has been made of the leak of all of SHIELD’s secure files, particularly what it reveals about the mysterious Black Widow.

He knows, from experience, that SHIELD did not have files on everything.  Perhaps not everything was leaked, but it is more likely that HYDRA kept some things from being accessible to the SHIELD agents responsible for the leak.  Almost no mention of him was made in the released documents.  He has read all it had to say on Steve Rogers and the other Avengers, including Ms. Romanoff, as she goes by now.  But specifics on her life before defecting to SHIELD are patchy and unclear.  Perhaps this will fill in the gaps.

Gathering the printed materials carefully, he rolls them up and tucks them into his pack.  Though it’s a long shot, he searches for the locations of other HYDRA bases.  After a few minutes of searching, he finds the mention of one a couple hundred miles south of here, and decides to go there next.  It may not exist anymore, but it’s worth a try.  Then he turns off the machinery, and goes to stand by the corridor from which he came until the all the tapes stop spinning and the room is again silent.  Then, slowly, he makes his way back the way he came.

The corridor is thankfully empty as he moves quietly down it.  It is the small hours of the morning, so a time it will be least likely to have anyone wandering around, if there’s anyone here to move around.  Nothing he’s seen indicates inhabitation, but it is too clean to be completely abandoned.  There would be a lot more dust, and fewer light bulbs still functioning if it is no longer in use.  So he hurries.

 

A few days later, he is farther south and dressed in civilian attire.  The location he found is inside what appears to be a restaurant.  The city is old, with a great deal of tunnels and other structures beneath the street, so he does not doubt the veracity of his information.  Getting into this place will be a little more complicated than the last one.  He sighs, looking down at the street under him.  Going through the restaurant undetected will be difficult; if there is a way he can get in from beneath the building, it will be easier.

After wandering as aimlessly as he can appear, he manages to find such a path.  Well, at least a way under the street.  Checking to see that no one is noticing him, he slips down the narrow staircase and walks, nearly blind, westward toward the restaurant.  His trek is cut short by a very solid wall in his path.  He sighs again, and begins to search for a way around it.  After a few tense minutes in the dark, he finds a door.  It’s very solid.

After a few tries, he manages to kick it down.  Fortunately, the inside is empty, but someone may have heard the noise.  He supposes that wasn’t the best method for getting in, but it’s too late now.  The basement in which he stands is about the same size as the restaurant above, and shows nothing to indicate it is anything more than an ordinary storage space.  He walks slowly up and down the rows of shelves, glancing over it briefly.  Nothing worth his effort.

At the other end of the room from where he entered, there is a wider staircase leading up to the main floor.  A small door catches his attention on the east wall, and he tries the handle.  Locked, unsurprisingly.  In a moment, though, he has it open and smiles.  It conceals an elevator.  A modern-looking elevator.  Hesitantly, he enters it and presses the only button there is.  Anxious at the lack of security measures thus far, he prepares himself to walk into a trap when it stops somewhere a ways down.  It’s impossible to tell how far he has descended when the doors open on a cavernous room.

Immediately, he presses himself against the wall beside the door, so he is not immediately visible.  It is well-lit here.  There are no sounds except the soft hum of computer fans, and he waits for as long as he dares before stepping out of the elevator.  It appears to be empty.  Whatever this room was intended for is a mystery, as there are just a few consoles around the outside walls.  Most of it is open, empty.  As he walks over to a set of computers, he notes that there are holes drilled into the floor and the ghostly outlines of equipment, no doubt kept here before HYDRA revealed itself.  Who knows where it is now.

It takes him some time to get into the information on these databases, and he glances repeatedly back at the elevator as he waits.  This is stupid, he thinks to himself.  What will he do if someone comes down here?  Kill them?  Risk recapture?  He’s trapped here, with only one exit.  If it comes to it, he may have to kill a lot of people to escape.  And then what?  He doesn’t have the resources these people do.  He’ll just have to run, try to disappear into anonymity before they catch him.  So stupid, reckless.  Like Steve, he thinks with a grim smile.

Searching for data on the Winter Soldier requires more authentication than he knows how to fake.  Similar searches for Captain America or the Black Widow are similarly fruitless.  Finally, feeling stressed, he gives up.  Whatever information that exists here is not worth losing his freedom again.  He searches for other base locations, but is unsuccessful.  Sighing, he decides he’ll have to try a different approach.


	9. Don't Take It Away From Me - I Need Someone to Hold Onto

 

Steve’s in Europe; Captain America isn’t quite as anonymous as he’d like to be.  Even though the news of his, and the other Avengers’, work in Eastern Europe has somewhat died down, it is apparent that Steve isn’t staying put in the Avengers’ facility.  In any case, avoiding Rogers is not difficult.  He always did tend to rush into things, he remembers vaguely.  Presumably, Steve is searching HYDRA bases for him, or information on him, and it would be easy to run into each other in one.  He decides to go to South America next.  There is some evidence that HYDRA has a presence down there, and he wants to continue avoiding Steve.  For now.

Within a few days, he is in an old hotel in Argentina.  It’s a little ways out of the town, and has a lot of vacancies.  If they found his presence here odd, the staff has made no comment.  He finds that he knows Spanish, which is helpful.  His fluency in the language apparently keeps them from asking questions, though he did choose this location as one least likely to be interested in his story.

He sets his bag down on the bed, frowning slightly when a puff of dust comes out of the coverlet.  Then he shrugs; he usually sleeps on the floor anyway.  Carefully, he removes the information he’s gathered from his pack, spreads it out across the bed and settles down to read it.  He reads his own files first, perusing the frequently clinical discussion of the Winter Soldier as an experiment.  If he doesn’t remember that it refers to himself, it is an interesting read.  But it makes him angry to read what was done to him, especially in such a detached and cold manner.

After about half an hour, he gets up to pace around the room, relieving some of his hatred for the people who claimed to prize him very highly.  Well, he thinks bitterly, they did certainly value him.  All the procedures they put him through were carefully tested and perfected before being applied to their favorite weapon.  Many others were killed along the way.  He can’t help but feel that this blood is on his hands, too.  If he had just died when he fell, or even before, when they got him the first time, none of this would have happened.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he flips more quickly through the remaining files on his project.  They became less detailed, just briefly reporting his missions.  His own reports, he thinks, startled.  Some he remembers, most he does not, but he does recall giving his mission reports when he returned to base.  These include some more detail than that with which he was provided, since context was irrelevant to the Winter Soldier, but some of the report was clearly from himself.  It is strange to read things he has said, described, without having any mental connection to it.  It’s like that was another person.  He supposes, grimly, that it essentially was another person, depending on how recently he’d been wiped.

There are two anomalies that catch his attention.  The first is that he was not recommended for service in the United States.  One mission to Brooklyn involved his escaping his handlers and disappearing for months.  Once found, the report states he didn’t remember where he was or what he had been doing during that time.  He frowns deeply, and paces for a while, wondering if the report is trustworthy.  Was he remembering living there before the war?  He grinds his teeth at the thought.  Had he almost escaped this once before?  It does explain the length of his hair, since none of his missions seemed long enough for it to have grown from regulation down to his shoulders.  Why HYDRA (or the KGB) didn’t see a reason to cut it is a mystery.  He supposes it might have made him a more intimidating figure, with the mask and the goggles as well.  He runs his fingers through it thoughtfully, then tucks it back behind his ears and keeps reading.

The other is a strange set of missions that are heavily redacted, despite nothing else taken from that base being redacted.  He frowns at it, and finds instructions to increase his wipes and limit his time out of cryo.  At the beginning, he was out and being trained for months at a time.  More recently, it was down to a couple of days.  He wonders how he could possibly have been worth all the effort, if his programming might break down so quickly.  But what happened to precipitate that?  No matter how he reads the limited information that is available, he can’t discern any reason other than the missions he was sent on apparently triggered something.

With a sigh, he turns to the last few pages, the last mission dated five years ago.  He reads it placidly, not connecting the assassination of an engineer outside of Odessa with anything.  Until he sees that there was someone else involved.  The description is vague, describing a woman who was shot but not killed, which is odd.  People did not survive his missions.

Deciding to puzzle that out later, he continues reading to find that there is a log of when the information has been accessed.  His initial thought is a sense of dread that then someone might realize he was there, but he pushes that away and reads through the list.  It was not accessed very often, but he sees it has been recently.  Within the last year.  He sucks in a breath.  Who could have been in Kiev before him?  He doesn’t think it was Steve.  It could have been SHIELD.  Or HYDRA.  But why would HYDRA go to an abandoned facility to access information on him?  They presumably have more recent data at their disposal.

It’s troubling.  He looks through the other information he printed, forcing aside the thought of people chasing him.  He knows they are, knew they would be when he decided not to just hide out until he wanted to find Steve.  He’s taken precautions and will continue to do so.  The rest is out of his hands.  Hand.  If it comes to it, he’s been carefully trained to avoid capture, by whatever means necessary.  Still, he knows that the world has changed since he was last in it, and being a super-soldier like Steve isn’t going to save him from everything.  Everyone after him has the reputation of getting what they want, which is unsettling.

The Black Widow’s history is surprisingly long, beginning with her being taken in as an orphan by a high-ranking Soviet official.  He reads with interest of her being placed, along with other orphans, in a program to develop world-class assassins.  Much of this program has been redacted also, and he wonders if there is anywhere that contains this information anymore.  She defected from the Soviets and joined SHIELD after a few heavily redacted missions.  Whatever their content, it apparently involved her breaking the rules, as strictures were being put into place to control her more thoroughly.  It was not surprising she left.

He is somewhat surprised that her missions continue to be detailed in the files, before supposing that HYDRA would incorporate SHIELD’s intel into their own.  He skims over these before pausing in shock, seeing that she was tasked with and failed to escort an engineer out of Iran.  She was stopped and her asset was killed outside of Odessa by a lone gunman.  He smiles grimly; the Winter Soldier is not mentioned in her file, but it does explain how she reacted to him on the bridge.  She knew some tricks to slow him down, perhaps because she’d faced him before.  He shakes his head at what seems like a coincidence.  And then she went on to work with and be a close confident of the man who was once his best friend.  How odd.

Continuing reading, he is surprised to find more recent updates than on his own file.  It’s possible that the Odessa mission was his last, and the chaos that followed his failure kept anyone from updating his log.  It’s also possible that Pierce was dead and not enough other people knew of his existence for that to be a priority.  But the Black Widow clearly is, as her last known locations are as recent as a few days ago, also not staying in the Avengers’ facility full time, and orders have gone out to take her captive if possible.  He laughs out loud when he sees where they think she is.

 

Pulling his hood over his face, he shoves his hands in his pockets before turning right and walking down the street, gaze directed at the ground.  He is not as unnoticeable here as he was in the larger cities of the United States, but he doubts anyone will spare him more than a passing glance.  He’s not the only foreigner here, after all.  Especially not since a conspicuous number of them checked into the hotels in town in the last twenty-four hours.  They did it stealthily, of course, but HYDRA’s spread pretty thin these days.

He walks down a few blocks before ducking inside a bar and finding a seat against the wall where he can watch the door.  When the girl comes over, he orders quietly, then takes stock of the other patrons.  Most look innocent enough; well, for people at a bar in the early afternoon, but some are rather too on-edge to be here for no reason.  He nurses his beer, wondering if alcohol will have no effect on him as is apparently the case for Steve.  He knows that any drugs he might have been given during procedures were often ineffectual, so it is likely that this will be, too.

The afternoon sun is hot, even though the shades are all shut.  The normal patrons seem to sink into their seats sleepily.  Some leave.  The others remain taut and ready, clearly waiting for something they’d rather avoid.  He mimics the behavior of the normal patrons, apparently well enough to avoid notice from the others.  He’s waiting for the same thing, though it’s not something he wants to avoid.

After a few hours, it’s finally cooling down, and the place is getting a little livelier.  There are rooms above it, he knows, and suspects that is why these suspicious characters are hanging around.  They think they know who is staying here.  He thinks they’re right, though it’s somewhat disappointing.  Her reputation would indicate that she’s better prepared than this.  Of course, she’s leaked all of her secrets (or quite a few of them anyway), and has had to develop new covers.  So maybe she’s slipping a little.

The sun is starting to set when a woman walks in the door.  She’s not the only woman to walk through the door, but she holds herself differently, not to mention her pale skin.  She’s as disguised as he is; more so, since her hair appears to be black.  But it’s definitely her.  All afternoon he has been considering how to react to this moment, but perhaps he doesn’t know what to do with potential allies.  Enemies he understands.  So he waits, watching her silently from under his hood as she crosses the room calmly, slowly, smirking, before settling at a table near the stairs that lead to the available rooms.

One of the men who has been there all day gets up after a few minutes, after the Black Widow has placed her order, and saunters over to her.  He makes a show of greeting her in a friendly manner, as though they are well-acquainted, and she frowns for only a split-second before responding in kind.  He sits down next to her and toasts her, having brought his drink from his own table.  They laugh together, but he can feel the tension from across the room, and a cursory glance shows that far too many eyes are focused on their table.  At least he was more subtle about it.

After a few long moments, the man pulls out a gun and lays it on the table.  The locals immediately get up and rush out, while the other men get to their feet and draw their own weapons.  She smiles calmly, not even glancing at the weapons pointed in her direction.  The confident smile on the man across from her wavers, and then fades entirely, his face growing pale.  There is the flash of a blade and flurry of movement, and she is standing, holding the man with a knife to his throat, shielding herself from his men.  She taunts them in Russian, mostly hidden behind the man.  Having read the orders on her capture, he is not surprised when they open fire despite her hostage.

She’s fast.  She has good aim.  But she is woefully outnumbered, and more men are pouring in through the door.  He watches carefully, weighing his options one last time.  But he cannot just stand by while she is killed or captured.  So he dives into the melee.


	10. Hey, God, There's Nothing Left For Me to Hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Natasha is doing there, that will be explained in my next story, which is a companion to this one and is from her perspective. I'll post it after this one :) Thanks for all the kudos!

 

Conserving his energy while causing others to expend theirs was his specialty, he thinks as he knocks down agent after agent.  They are at first considerably startled by the drunk in the corner getting involved, which he uses to his advantage.  It’s extremely effective for the first few minutes.  Then more swarm on him, with deadly intent, than are attacking her.  He’s an unknown, after all, and they do not have orders to take him alive.  He leaves most of _them_ alive, so long as they receive prompt medical attention.  Most won’t be coming after him later, though.

The abrupt stillness after the last man is brought down is somewhat shocking.  He looks around at the men strewn across the floor, with the debris of tables and chairs, searching for any that might still be a threat.  Which is how he doesn’t notice what the real threat is doing until she has launched herself at him and slammed him against the wall, holding her now blood-soaked knife to his throat, just pricking the skin.

“Who are you?” she asks with surprising calm.

He looks down at her, smiling under her scrutiny.  She is assessing him in much the same way he’s already assessed her, and was assessing the agents in the room.  Then he puzzles over how to answer that question to his best advantage.  Taking much of her time is likely not a good option.  He holds up his hands as he considers how to respond.

She glances to his left.  He’s wearing his glove, but his sleeve’s gotten torn and metal glints through.  Then she looks up at him again with wide eyes.  “Bucky?” she asks, in a tone just as disbelieving as Steve’s a few weeks earlier.

“Formerly,” he answers.

She frowns at him.  “Are you still a HYDRA agent?”

He looks significantly at the rest of the room.  “No,” he answers slowly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for HYDRA.”  Her eyebrow arches.  “To gather intel to help me bring them down.  And I found you.  Thought you could use a hand,” he adds.

She steps back warily, lowering her knife.  Looking him up and down, she moves back a little further, then bends to wipe the blade on the clothes of the nearest man.  “Thanks,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” he answers sincerely.

His sincerity makes her look up at him sharply again.  “Why are you running from our mutual friend?” she wants to know.

He shrugs.  “It’s not time yet.”

Nodding, she stands, then glances around uncertainly.  “I need to gather my things from upstairs before I leave,” she says abruptly.

“I can keep an eye on things down here,” he offers.

She smiles hesitantly at him.  “Thank you.”

He waits patiently while she disappears up the staircase.  Carefully, he walks around the men on the floor and inventories them as best he can, ascertaining their current state of health as well as any other information he can gather on them.  After a few minutes, he’s through, and she’s descending the stairs.

“We should probably leave town,” she tells him.

“We?” he asks.

Her smirk returns.  “Steve’s been looking for you for ages.  He’d be upset with me if I found you and let you disappear into the night right away.”

He shifts his weight uncomfortably.  “You want to take me to him.”

“That’s up to you.  But you saved my life, so I owe you.  Taking you to another safe house after you blew your cover here is the least I can do,” she explains reassuringly.

With a slight frown, he nods.  “You’d trust me that far?” he asks.

Stepping forward, she touches his cheek briefly.  “Of course not.  But it’s not close, so I’m sure I’ll have ample opportunity to clear you before we get there,” she tells him with a smile.

Feeling unsettled, he nods again.  Her file begins to make more sense.  She is skilled at manipulation.  He was relatively impervious to that before, being so mission-driven and unrelenting.  But now he will have to be on his toes to keep her out of his head.  Forcing all expression from his face, he heads for the door, opening it for her.  She smirks at the gesture and he looks away as she walks through, then follows her.

It is fortunate that the sun has set, so their blood-stained clothing is less obvious.  Both were wearing black to begin with, though, and the stains aren’t as obvious as they could be.  He follows her down empty streets for a few blocks until they reach an unremarkable car parked on the street.  She opens the trunk and tosses her bags into it.  When she looks at him, he sets his pack in it with hers, pushing aside the uncomfortable feeling that he’ll never see it again.  They climb in the vehicle, her in the driver’s seat, and leave town.

She doesn’t talk much.  He supposes that is alright, since he’d just have to analyze what she said anyway.  If she is taking him to a safe house, as she claims, he wonders why she would risk it.  Her explanation is reasonable, but he doesn’t know if she is really justified.  If she is so close to being captured, if she has come this close before, it seems a terrible gamble to take him along with her.  Sure, he’d be of use if a similar situation presents itself, but he could be leading HYDRA to her, for all she knows.  It seems a foolish course of action to him, though it was what he had been hoping for.  She is a spy, adept at dealing with modern technology.  If he wants more information from the bases he infiltrates, she would be a valuable asset.  A valuable ally, he corrects himself.

Given what he knows about her, he is relatively certain that she will not intentionally turn him over to SHIELD or HYDRA.  But turning him over to Steve might be her plan.  It wouldn’t be an unreasonable plan.  She was much more at ease in the bar than she is now, sitting next to him in the car.  She hides it well, of course, but he can tell in the way she holds onto the wheel just a little too tightly, turns on her turning signal with a little too much vigor.  He does the best he can to appear nonthreatening, but knows she is more worried about him than she was about HYDRA.  Despite how close they got to succeeding earlier.  Though, he reminds himself, he has no idea how long she would have successfully defended herself without his interference.  Maybe she would have been fine.  She hadn’t looked like it, but it’s possible.

“What did you do after you left Rogers on the bank?” she says suddenly.

Her face is serious, the smirk that is often there is gone.  She doesn’t look at him, her focus on the road.  He glances at her for a moment, then back out the windshield.  “Hid,” he replies placidly.

This time she does look at him, though only briefly.  “Where?”

“D.C.”

“Why’d you help me?”

Her fingers are wrapped tightly around the steering wheel again.  His gaze flickers from them to her face, then back.  “I gathered intel on you.”  She looks surprised.  “And on me.  They were keeping tabs on you.  I thought…”  he pauses, parsing out how to explain his thought process.  She waits patiently.  It’s probably one of the reasons she’s done as well as she has in this business, he thinks irrelevantly.  “I want to take down HYDRA.  Completely.  Get revenge.  But I can’t.  I don’t have the skills.”  He licks his lips, hesitating, staring out into the darkness.  “But you do,” he adds, looking at her.

She turns to face him briefly.  “Steve could help you,” she suggests.

He sighs heavily, bringing the smirk back to her face.  “He might.  But he’s not…  He wouldn’t…  He’d get in the way,” he finishes at last.

Her smile broadens.   “He was pretty keen on destroying HYDRA when he found out it was you,” she explains.  “And, from what I’ve heard, he felt the same way in 1944.”

He looks down at his hands, having taken both gloves off earlier, and studies them.  “That’s not what I meant,” he says quietly.

“You don’t think he’d understand?” she asks, as softly.  He nods.  “But you think I will?”

Opening his mouth, he stops and shuts it again.  “I hadn’t considered that,” he admits.

She laughs.  It’s a gentle laugh, not at his expense, and he smiles tentatively.  “You’ve read all about me, I suppose,” she prompts.  He nods again.  She glances briefly over.  “Then you know understanding people is my job.  Not,” she admits, “that there’s anyone else in quite the same boat as you.  But I can help you get revenge.”

“Will you?” he asks.

Facing him for a moment, she answers seriously.  “I will try.  Because I owe Steve, and now I owe you.”  She turns back to the road, shaking her head.  “Debts are piling up,” she mutters.


	11. I Lost My Ignorance, Security, And Pride

 

They drive in silence.  He watches the headlights pass by, looking away at the last moment to keep from being blinded.  Whatever scenery they pass is unknown to him.  It’s dark, so not cities.  Most likely it is forested.  Occasionally lights dot the darkness on either side of them, but not enough to see beyond their road.  It doesn’t matter, he thinks.  The lack of information bothers him, as it should, but he’s willing to accept that she knows what she’s doing.

She shifts her weight from time to time, causing the seat beneath her to creak.  Every time this happens, he looks at her sharply.  And she smiles gently in response, sometimes glancing at him, sometimes not.  Her wariness of him seems to have decreased, perhaps as a result of their conversation.  He doesn’t know.  It isn’t something he’s practiced in a very long time.  Eventually, he leans back and makes himself comfortable.  He won’t sleep here, and is somewhat apprehensive about sleeping when they get where ever it is they are going, but it’s nice to rest for a while.

“Do you remember when we … met before?” she asks quietly.  Perhaps she thinks he is asleep, and is willing to let him go on sleeping if he doesn’t answer the question.  He considers feigning unconsciousness to avoid answering, but doesn’t see any reason to do so.  He doesn’t think responding to it will be particularly compromising.

“No.  I read about it, though,” he answers.

She bites her lip, nodding.  “In both files?”

“Yes.”  He waits, but she does not pursue the topic further.  He clears his throat.  “I’m sorry I shot you,” he says when she glances over at him.

Smirking, she shrugs.  “Don’t worry about it.  It wasn’t the first time someone’s shot at me, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

He raises an eyebrow.  “Do you have a lot of bullet wounds?” he asks in surprise.

She pauses, and he can see her consideration of whether or not to tell the truth.  When she finally answers, he can’t be sure which option she chose.  “Only from you,” she says at last with a grin.

“I see.”  He watches her, searching for some tell that will indicate her truthfulness.  Or lack thereof.  People have been lying to him for decades, you’d think he’d be able to spot it easily by now.  Instead, he is just wary of any information he receives.

“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in revenge,” she assures him, her tone more sincere than before.

“I’m not worried.”

She laughs, a quick, harsh sound.  “I’d be surprised if you were.  You nearly killed me last time,” she adds, one hand briefly going to her shoulder to rub where he’d shot her.

The conversation makes him uncomfortable.  “You kept me on my toes,” he offers.

Her glance is appraising, serious, when she turns in his direction for a moment before looking back at the road.  “Did I?”

He nods.  “More than any other opponent I can remember.”

The familiar smirk returns.  “How many can you remember?”

Cocking his head, he thinks for a few moments.  “I read the file,” he says at last.  “The memories are… harder to untangle.”

An unreadable expression crosses her face.  “Yeah, I get that.”

“Do you?”

“You’re not the only one who’s had people play with your brain,” she answers darkly.

He thinks of her file, of her past in the place called the Red Room.  She would know what it’s like, he concludes.  Not to the extent he does, of course, but she has more basis for understanding than Steve does.  Than most people do.  Perhaps that’s why he was more drawn toward her than the others.

“Natalia,” he says quietly, thinking.

“What?” she asks, sounding surprised.

“That was your name.  I had to remember it to find you in the data banks in Kiev,” he explains slowly, confused by her reaction.

She smiles slightly.  “I go by Natasha now, James.”

“James?” he questions.

Shrugging, she takes a sharp turn as they leave the main road.  “I didn’t know if you’d want anyone besides Steve calling you Bucky,” she explains after a pause.

He considers.  “It’s fine,” he decides.

She is silent for a long moment, clearly thinking.  “It’s important to reclaim your name.  It’s one of the first things they take.”

Looking down at his hands again, he curls them into fists and nods.  “Only Zola called me by anything other than my codename.  And only at the beginning.”  He pauses, clearing his throat.  “Not that he called me Bucky, of course.”

“Of course,” she agrees with a grim smile.  “What did he call you?”

“I remember…  I remember him calling me Sergeant Barnes.  I think.  It may have been a dream,” he adds.

Nodding, her nervousness appears gone completely.  She appears to be honest – earnest, even.  He isn’t sure why, but it makes him simultaneously feel better and more uncomfortable, to talk about what happened to him and have her respond this way.

“Steve tells me that talking to you brought you out.  Do you remember any other times you got close to breaking their influence?” she asks quietly, gently.

“I don’t remember.  But there were a few anomalies in the file,” he answers, glad to have something solid, something he’s sure of, to discuss.  “One was after I was sent on a mission to Brooklyn.  I didn’t come back for a few months.”

“Months?” she clarifies, looking considerably startled.

“I guess,” he says, backtracking from the strength of her reaction.

Noticing, she glances over at him, and gives him a reassuring look.  “Sorry, I just didn’t think they’d be unable to find you for that kind of time period.  I mean, it’s not like they had anyone else like you they could use if you were lost,” she adds hastily.

He nods slowly.  “They weren’t very happy about it.”

Laughing, she shakes her head.  “I’m sure they weren’t.  If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let Steve go after you.  If you can hide from HYDRA for months when you don’t even know why you want to, then I seriously doubt Steve would be able to find you if you don’t want to be found.”

He smiles hesitantly.  “I was keeping tabs on him.  Subtlety isn’t his strongest suit.”

She laughs again, seeming pleased to have a common subject.  “He is a terrible liar.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing,” he suggests.

Sobering slightly, she nods.  “It’s admirable.  But makes working for a secret organization of spies a little challenging.”

“I can imagine.”  He thinks about how Steve would deal with a world full of grey and blurred lines, and shakes his head.  “He must have hated it.”

She purses her lips.  “You’re probably right.  I suppose he’s glad it’s gone now.  Do you remember knowing him from before?” she asks abruptly.  “Or are you usually this intuitive?”

The second question throws him briefly, and he collects his thoughts as she weaves down silent streets in a small town.  When was the last time he had a real conversation?  “I remember some things.  Some before the war, some during.  A lot after.”

She pulls into a parking lot and comes to a stop, turning to look at him.  “I’m sorry about that,” she says, putting her hand over his.  “And about this,” she adds, looking truly apologetic as he feels something prick his skin.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a slight panic as his thoughts start to feel muddled.

Smiling ruefully, she holds up her hand to show him a tiny needle.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, James, it’s just that I wouldn’t have survived this long without taking some precautions.  You’ll wake up feeling just fine, I promise.”

He blinks rapidly, struggling to keep his eyes open.  “This… HYDRA… please,” he mutters confusedly.

Gently, she pushes on his shoulder to get him to lean back in the seat.  “Don’t fight it, James.  Go to sleep.” 

The Winter Soldier follows orders.


	12. I'm All Alone in a World You Must Despise

_He stood in the ditch, staring upward.  His men were arrayed around him, also staring.  Everyone’s focus was on the strange new weapon that had destroyed the others.  Recovering himself, he ordered his men to duck, diving behind the hill as he did so.  That was how he survived.  Many did not.  Pandemonium broke out, more so than he had ever experienced in battle up to that point.  And he’d had a lot of field experience by now.  He did what he could to save his men.  Which meant surrendering._

_As they were marched along, prisoners of war, he considered his choice.  He knew his superiors would prefer to have their troops left alive, even if inconvenienced by being in a Nazi prison camp.  He knew his men would also prefer life to being destroyed utterly, as that horrifying lightning-weapon the enemy had would have done.  And he knew his family would be happy he was alive, and might survive the war.  Not all prisoners did, of course, but it was possible.  Still, making the decision to surrender to Nazi scum was not a pleasant one, and he hated that there were not enough high-ranking men left alive for that decision to be taken wholly from his hands._

_He had no idea where they were being taken.  He knew when they passed over the line into enemy territory, and knew they walked deep into that area.  He supposed it wasn’t preferable for prison camps to be in places where they might be rescued easily.  No, it was more effective if they were far behind the line, with no chance of rescue.  It would destroy morale to know that, even if the camp itself could be escaped, it was a very long way to any allies who would keep a prisoner from being immediately returned.  Or shot on sight, as was more likely.  There was no reason for an already strained war machine to keep useless prisoners alive._

_So all he’d really done was buy them some time.  It was quite possible that they’d all end up dead, anyway, from sickness or starvation or a bullet to the head.  But it was the best choice he could make at the time.  He’d heard stories, everyone had, of illustrious prisoners who engineered creative and effective means of escaping the enemy, and returned to their countrymen only to reenlist.  He wondered, if he got out of this, whether or not he’d consider jumping back in.  He was a loyal American, the Nazis were clearly evil and must be stopped.  But maybe that wasn’t his job.  Not anymore.  Some other young men could go._

_The thought made him clench his teeth.  Steve would want to go, the silly bastard.  If he went home, he’d have quite the job keeping Steve there.  The intermittent letters he got from home didn’t go into detail about what stupid plan Steve was hatching, but he suspected he was still trying everything possible to enlist.  He understood his friend’s motivation, but not his fervor.  If he couldn’t get in, if he wouldn’t survive, there was no reason to send him to war.  No matter how it pricked his pride.  There were other things he could do for the war effort._

_He thought of his last conversation with Steve, on the last night before he came here.  The fool had refused to even consider enjoying himself.  He’d stood up for people, as he always did, as the country refused to allow him to do.  And gotten his ass handed to him, as usual.  How could he possible think he’d last in a battle?  He’d just hold everyone back.  It wasn’t fair, certainly, because no one wanted to serve their country as much as Steve Rogers did.  But that didn’t change the fact that, physically, that just wasn’t in the cards.  He wished his friend would consider some of the other options he had available to him to be helpful.  He wished he’d gotten more letters from him so he’d know how he was doing.  He got letters from his mother, his sisters, but only a few from Steve.  It was unfortunate that Steve didn’t have a real older brother to keep an eye on him.  Though, he thought bitterly, it was entirely possible that such a person would also go to war and leave Steve alone and reckless._

_His thoughts were interrupted when he tripped on a tree branch and fell on his face.  They weren’t bound, but fatigue made his reaction time slow.  As quickly as he could, he got to his feet and brushed off debris from his uniform as he continued walking.  There was some fear that the equally exhausted men behind him might not notice they were stepping on a fellow soldier instead of the hard ground._

_“You okay there, Sarge?” a voice came from his left.  He glanced over.  Dugan._

_“Yeah, just a bit sleepy.  I hope they have our rooms prepared for us,” he added._

_Dugan laughed.  “I’m sure they do.  They’ll be lovely, all turned out in lace.  I’ll feel bad about tramping around in my boots.”_

_“Hopefully we’ll get there in time for tea,” Jones put in, smiling._

_“Tea time is quite passed, I’m afraid, gentleman,” a British man walking nearby told them stiffly, but then smiled._

_“Halt die Schnauze!” a German soldier snarled at them, and they fell silent._

_The rest of the trek was a blur.  It was long, and he was exhausted.  He took little notice of his surroundings, though vaguely aware of where he was.  Just in case of escape, so he’d know which way to walk.  It must have been close to thirty miles before they reached a factory of some sort.  The Germans had become increasingly irate as they walked, no doubt as exhausted as they were, and speaking to anyone was out of the question.  They were separated seemingly at random, and taken down to cells underground.  Relieved to be done walking at last, he had fallen asleep almost immediately._

_Later, Dugan woke him up and shoved a bit of bread into his hands.  He ate quickly as their captors approached and ordered them out of the cell.  It was useful to know German, as those who did not or were just slow to obey were punished with rough treatment.  He whispered the commands in English whenever he could to help the others.  They were marched to the factory floor, and set to work.  The labor was menial and he struggled to stay awake.  The overseer walked around and frequently struck those who were slowing, so he worked hard to keep from being one of those targeted._

_After an eternity, he was allowed to return to his cell and sleep.  And his life closed in on the mere act of survival.  Eat what you can, avoid notice, sleep whenever possible.  They were worked very hard, with little time for rest.  Most men used any spare moments to catch some shut eye; there were no leisure activities or talk of escape.  Not here.  Rumor was that there were some high-ranking officials here.  So everyone was on their best behavior: the Germans to impress their leaders and the prisoners because the punishments were much more severe than at most prison camps.  As far as he knew, anyway._

_One morning, he couldn’t get up.  He was too tired.  He didn’t care when the little German in charge of them screamed in his face, struck him hard enough to bruise instantly.  Eventually, the man stopped yelling and took the others to work.  He thought perhaps he might be left alone, but was not surprised when footsteps approached his cell.  At a command in German, he opened his eyes and blinked blearily up at a short blond man in glasses._

_“Sergeant Barnes?” the man questioned, looking down at some document in his hand._

_Did they know all their names?  “Yes,” he croaked._

_The man smiled.  “From Brooklyn, I think?”_

_“Yes,” he repeated, closing his eyes again._

_“Feeling a little under the weather, Sergeant?” the man asked in harsh amusement.  He didn’t answer.  “Well, I’m sure I can find a use for you.  Bring him,” he ordered to someone else.  He was pulled roughly to his feet by his arms, and dragged down hallway after hallway until he reached what must be a lab of some kind.  There were gurneys here and there, and strange-looking machinery.  The sight was unsettling, but he was too sick to care very much._

_“Lay him down on there.  Strap him in.  Good.  Comfortable?” the man asked, leaning over him.  He opened his eyes, pressing slightly against the straps.  “I’m sure you are,” the man answered himself, smiling grimly.  “Just relax while I get this ready for you.”  He disappeared from sight, and he listened with vague horror to the sounds of chemicals being mixed and a syringe being prepared.  “This might sting a little,” the man told him, returning.  Without further warning, a sharp pain ran through his right arm and an unpleasantly cold sensation filled him as some liquid was pumped under his skin.  The cold didn’t last long, unfortunately, and soon he felt like he was burning.  Not just in his arm, but everywhere.  He shook off his lethargy enough to cry out, and then fell unconscious._

He wakes in a cold sweat, sitting up abruptly.  When he sees that he is not in the cold laboratory of a Nazi scientist, he is confused.  He looks around, taking stock of the white lacy coverlet on the bed beneath him, the light-colored curtains blowing gently in the breeze coming from the windows, the book shelves on either side of the door.  The door that is standing open.  The room is warm, but the breeze helps.  He looks down at himself, oddly relieved to find himself in the same civilian clothes he remembers wearing earlier.  The thought of someone touching him at all, let alone while he slept, is upsetting.  He flexes his fingers and moves off of the bed.  He doesn’t know where he is.  What happened?

Natalia, he thinks.  She drugged him.  He looks down at his right hand, looking for evidence of this.  Finding nothing, he wonders if he might have dreamt that, too.  His connection with reality feels unstable, tenuous, and he decides to go find someone to explain to him what is really true and what his addled brain has invented.  Was his dream true?  Was it a memory or some mixing of circumstances?  It seemed real, and was accurate from what little information on the time period he’s managed to collect.

Stepping quietly, he moves to stand in the doorway, glancing up and down the hallway.  Empty.  The left leads somewhere well-lit, while the right ends in another doorway and is dark.  He chooses to go left, glancing back frequently to make sure nothing is behind him.  There is a bathroom next to the room where he awoke, and the hallway ends in a kitchen.  It is empty, though with large, open windows.  There is a living room on the other side of it, and he finds Natalia sitting on a couch, reading with her legs curled under her.

“Look who’s awake,” she says gently, smiling.

He frowns at her.  “You tricked me.”

“It’s a safe house, James.  It wouldn’t be very safe if I just let anyone wander in,” she explains, her tone teasing.

Nodding, he looks away.  “What did you give me, Natalia?”

A smirk appears at the name.  “Nothing that won’t get out of your system in a hurry.  I’m sure you’re thirsty, though,” she adds, getting to her feet.  He steps aside as she walks to the kitchen and gets him a glass of water.  “You’ll feel better after a drink.  I always do.”

“Do you often prick yourself when you’re trying to knock someone else out?” he asks quietly, before drinking deeply.  She’s right; he does feel better almost immediately.

She laughs.  “No, I practiced first.  I don’t keep the stuff here, if you’re looking for revenge,” she adds with a smile.

He shakes his head.  “I… It made me remember some things.  More than I have in a while.”

Her face sobers.  “I see.  Do you want some more?”

“Not now.  How long was I out?”

“Twelve hours.”

Sighing, he sits down at the kitchen table.  “You’ll help me?”

She sits down across from him.  “If I can.”

“Then we have a lot to do.”


	13. Hey God, I Believed Your Promises, Your Promises And Lies

 

After they talk, she sends him to the bathroom.  His pack is in there, with all of his stuff.  He showers and changes, finding some dried blood from the day before on him in a few places.  It washes off easily.  When he’s finished, he inspects himself in the mirror and frowns at the new bruises.  More HYDRA agents landed blows than he’d realized.  But there are no cuts or bullet wounds, so he figures he hasn’t lost his touch.  He recalibrates his left arm and tests to make sure it is running properly.  It is, but he wonders what he will do if it is damaged too much for his limited skills to overcome.  He might have to seek help if that happens.  Help from whom, he isn’t sure.

He has not remembered the first time Zola experimented on him, he decides as he dresses.  That was a new memory; no part of it has surfaced before.  At least, not since he pulled Steve out of the river.  What may or may not have come back between wipes is a mystery.  He wonders what he can do to encourage more full-fledged memories to return.  It’s been mostly flashes here and there.  When he’s comfortably attired, he walks down the hall to the kitchen, and stands in front of the windows.  They are on the second story of what may be a villa, and he wonders with some amusement how she got his unconscious body up here.

“Something funny?” Natalia’s voice behind him.

He turns to look at her, expression blank.  “Just theorizing how you got me up here,” he says after a pause.

She smiles.  She’s wearing a thin dress that goes down past her knees, but makes him feel uncomfortable nonetheless.  “I obviously threw you over my shoulder and carried you,” she explains with mock seriousness.

“Of course.  That’s what I was thinking,” he responds.

“Ready to look at the intel I have?” she asks, truly serious now.

“Yes,” he replies, and follows her to the living room.  She sits down on the couch, opening a laptop that’s sitting on the coffee table before her.  After a brief moment of hesitation, he sits down next to her.

“Were you kept apprised on new technology?” she asks conversationally while the machine boots up.

He shrugs.  “Well enough to complete my missions.  I didn’t, you know, have an iPod to play with in my down time,” he adds.

To his surprise, she laughs.  His confusion must show, because she explains.  “I’m sorry, that was just a great mental image.  And I didn’t expect you to know what an iPod is.”

“I see,” he replies.

She logs into the machine and opens a folder containing several MBs of data.  He watches her silently as she navigates this, then accesses a secure connection.  “I’m going to see if I can get anything more up to date.  It’s going to take a little while for us to get through their security,” she explains.

“Okay,” he says, since she appears to be waiting for his response.

Moments pass in silence as they sit back and watch progress bars move on the monitor.  “So, why’d they give you the Soviet star?” she asks suddenly, reaching to touch his shoulder but pulling back at the last moment.

“I don’t know,” he admits.  “To be a symbol,” he suggests after a pause.

She nods, pursing her lips.  “To the nation.”

“A symbol to Americans, not Russians,” he corrects thoughtfully.

“Hmm?”

“It was the Cold War.  HYDRA wanted to keep tensions going between them.”

She cocks her head at him, thinking.  “You think HYDRA started the Cold War?”

Glancing at the computer again, he nods.  “I think they like to stir things up.”

Snorting, she turns back to her task.  “That’s definitely true.  So they gave you a star to strike fear into both sides.”

“What do you mean?” he asks sharply.

Some of the progress bars have finished and she types a few new commands before sitting back again.  “I mean you were a ghost story the KGB used to keep people in line in Russia.  And I hear you were terrifying to American agents as well.”

He frowns.  “You’d heard of me?”

Her smirk returns, but is grimmer than usual.  “I had.  I knew who I was facing, both times.  I heard stories when I was younger.  Imagine my surprise when I found out SHIELD had records on you, too.  Not to mention actually seeing you,” she adds, carefully not looking at him.

Considering her explanation, he looks out the window for a few moments.  “Pierce told me I shaped the century.  Did I?” he murmurs.

Something in his tone makes her look at him sadly.  “You did,” she says quietly.  “There are assassinations attributed to you going back more than fifty years.”  She pauses, studying his reaction.  “I don’t think the disagreements after WWII between the Soviet Union and the United States would have escalated into the Cold War if it weren’t for you.”

“Great,” he grumbles, closing his eyes.

She takes his hand, the real one, and squeezes it.  “Well, I’m sure taking down HYDRA once and for all will make up for that,” she tells him reassuringly.

“You think so?” he asks, opening his eyes to stare at her intently.  She seems earnest again, completely present.

“I do,” she answers with conviction.

He looks down at his hands.  She’s released his right one, as soon as he opened his eyes.  “Then what will I do?” he whispers.

“James,” she says emphatically, and he lifts his gaze to meet her eye.  “Whatever you want to do.  That’s why you broke free.  So you could _be_ free.  I’m sure Steve will understand and help you do whatever you want.  Be whoever you want to be,” she adds, almost wistfully.

He thinks of Steve’s dumbfounded expression when they fought on the bridge.  And his quiet determination in the helicarrier.  “I don’t know about that,” he says.

Frowning, she turns her body to face him more directly.  “Why not?”

“He wants me to be Bucky,” he mutters, the helplessness he feels too obvious in his voice.

She lets out a breath, then cups his chin in her hand, forcing him to meet her eye.  “He’ll understand.  I know Steve.  I know he wants Bucky back, but you have to understand he’s not the same Steve anymore, either.  You can be friends again without either of you expecting it to be like before.”  She sits back, folding her arms across her chest.  “And, if not, just send him to me and I’ll set him straight,” she adds lightly.

Smiling tentatively, he nods and looks down at the computer.  “Is it done?” he asks.

Leaning forward, she assents and hastily begins gathering information.  After a few minutes, she saves this on a flash drive, which she gives to him.  As though she knows him already better than he’d like, she also prints him a copy, getting up to fetch it from the printer on the other side of the room.  He stands as well, and goes to look at the fresh pages.  It was a lot faster than in Kiev, he thinks irrelevantly.

“There, current intel on the last vestiges of HYDRA.  I don’t know how long this will be accurate, though,” she warns.

“It’s fine.  It’s better than what I was doing,” he assures her.  “Thank you, Natalia,” he adds, looking down at her.

She smiles up at him.  “No problem, James.  How about some dinner?”

 

After dinner, he spends the night in what turns out to be her spare bedroom, where he was before.  He sleeps well, perhaps better than he has since he can remember.  In the morning, he helps her make breakfast, and she promises to blindfold him instead of knocking him out when he leaves.  Not long after dawn, he is standing in a parking lot, with only a vague knowledge of where her house is from here.  She unties the blindfold and folds it up slowly, seeming as though she is stalling.

“Stay safe, James,” she says at last, letting her arms drop to her sides.

Biting his lip, he nods.  “You too.  Thank you, Natalia,” he adds sincerely, taking her hand and, in a move that surprises both of them, pressing it to his lips.

“Yeah, well, I owed you my life,” she explains.

“And now I owe you dinner,” he replies.

A tentative smile crosses her features.  “I’m looking forward to it.”

Returning her expression, he surveys his surroundings and starts walking.  He has a long way to go before nightfall.


	14. You Made Me Throw It All Away, My Morals Left to Decay

 

He walks.  It is surprising, he supposes, to consider how many missions involved his walking from place to place.  A large part of his job was to go unnoticed, so being driven or flown, or driving himself, would generally attract too much attention.  As a solitary human being, he could move quietly and blend in with crowds easily, as well as escape undetected.  From what he can tell, stealth was a skill he possessed even during WWII, and had just gotten better at it since then.  So he’d spent a great deal of time out of cryo on his feet, not killing anyone.

As an assassin, the actual killing wasn’t supposed to take very long.  There was quite a bit of forethought and planning that took hours and sometimes days, and then completing the mission itself rarely took longer than a few minutes.  Some were not sufficiently planned in advance, and involved more hands-on endeavors on his part, but that was rare.  When he had met Natalia five years ago, he had been out of cryo for a few days planning and gathering intel on the location of the scientist.  Then he’d staked out the cliff outside Odessa for hours.  The kill shot had taken a matter of seconds, and then he’d returned to his handlers.

There had always been handlers, he is pretty sure.  Possibly they had increased in number or vigilance after he’d disappeared in Brooklyn for a while, but they were always a part of his missions.  He was not, after all, adequately prepared to deal with life outside of HYDRA for very long.  It was one way they had encouraged his loyalty; if he knew nothing else, what fear could they have of their best weapon defecting?  If Steve hadn’t shown up, he shudders to think that he may never have escaped their influence.  He would have continued being their weapon, waiting to be aimed, until his results no longer outweighed his upkeep.

To maintain the Winter Soldier took resources.  He wonders how they justified it.  To Zola, he was a pet project and the costs were irrelevant in the face of a “victory” for science.  He doesn’t know the names of the men in charge of his project after Zola until Pierce, but supposes the fact that he had such a reputation in the Soviet Union and in the United States made it worth their while to keep using him.  To Pierce, well, he always wanted to have the best, regardless of cost.  And the Winter Soldier was nothing if not that.  He is sure he would have been terminated otherwise.

Natalia was able to provide him with some much needed information.  Not everything, of course, because HYDRA has always been excellent at maintaining secrecy, but enough to give him a place to start.  He touches the flash drive in his pocket and wonders at her helpfulness.  Perhaps she wants HYDRA destroyed, too, and is content to aim the perfect weapon that he has become at the organization.  She is a better spy than he is, especially since he was given less autonomy in recent years than he had been.  But it is likely that he is best suited for this mission.  He smiles grimly at the thought that it will finish the mission Bucky had been on, had never completed – destroying HYDRA.

At length, he reaches a city.  No one pays any attention to him, at least nothing more than a passing glance, as he navigates his way through twisting streets until he reaches a tall building.  It resembles an office building, and sticks out as one of the more modern structures in the area.  Which is poor planning on their point.  Carefully, he surveys the outside and then finds a location to wait across the street.  From a safe distance, he keeps an eye on the place while he drinks coffee and reads a newspaper.  It’s in Spanish, but he can follow most of it.

Eventually, the workers begin streaming out of the building, their day’s work completed.  He is feeling somewhat tired himself, perhaps as a result of Natalia’s drug, but knows he will be wide awake once he gets to work.  After a short while, he determines that the civilians have left, at least most of them, and gets up from his seat.  Leaving some money on the table, he swings his pack over his shoulder and heads into the alley next to the building.

As expected, there is a door down a few steps that provides access for maintenance workers on the utility lines.  He opens this easily and slips inside.  It is not meant to be connected to the main building, but he knows the way, thanks to Natalia.  After he gets into the true basement, not just maintenance corridors, he pauses to listen carefully.  There isn’t a sound.  He sets his pack down quietly and unzips it.  Inside, he finds some things he doesn’t remember having before.  More weapons, extra ammo, a burner cell.  Glancing around, he opens the phone and smiles at the only message it contains.  Then he turns it off and shrugs off his jacket.

Beneath his civilian clothes he wears mission gear.  Not the same as before, but tactically similar.  He packs his pockets with extra ammo and grenades, and fastens a few knives and pistols to his person.  Then he removes his rifle from the bag and screws it together, swinging it over his shoulder when finished.  He flexes his left arm and inspects it briefly to be sure it is in proper working order.  It is strange to have it uncovered again, after all these months, but he wants it to be seen.

Moving silently through the basement, he places charges on load-bearing walls before finding stairs and moving upward.  The first floor is unremarkable, though with a few more security guards than one would expect in an office building at night.  He evades them easily and makes his way upstairs.  The next several floors contain offices and cubicles and are similarly uninteresting.  The fourth floor has only one entrance, and requires a retinal scan.  He considers going back down for a guard to use, but he has no idea who would have clearance to enter the upper floors.  So he breaks the door down instead.  It requires the use of one of his explosives as well as some effort from his metal arm, but he manages after a few moments.

Unsurprisingly, the action causes an alarm to go off.  It blares, while red lights flash throughout the floor to which he has just gained access.  He’ll have to move a little faster than planned.  This area seems to be a lab of some sort, and he inspects it briefly before moving on, climbing to the next floor.  The fifth and sixth are similar, but the seventh contains what he wants.  There is a computer, a central one, as well as a chair.  A familiar chair.  He doesn’t know how they got it here, or if it is a different one.  But he knows what it’s for.

Calmly, he inserts his flash drive into the computer.  He watches patiently while it gathers more intel for him, from some program Natalia put on it.  When it’s finished, he places a charge on the console and turns back to the chair.  He can hear a cacophony above the sound of the alarms, the sound of boots approaching him, people coming to find the intruder.  He doesn’t have a lot of time.  But he takes it anyway, and puts his left arm to good use destroying the apparatus that destroyed him.

The doors burst open when the chair and its equipment have been reduced to a nearly unrecognizable piece of twisted metal.  He ducks automatically behind it as shots ring out, drowning out the shouts of the men at the door.  Pulling a grenade from the pouch on the small of his back, he rolls it quietly toward them.  They don’t notice it right away.  Then they scream, but the explosion is deafening in the enclosed space, and his ears ring for a few moments before he can make sense of what he’s hearing again.

Glancing briefly from his cover, he sees that several people are down, near the door but unmoving.  He can hear shouting in the space beyond, and considers his best option.  There is only one way out of here.  But there is another room in the opposite direction that he should at least check into.  Gingerly, he gets to his feet and moves hastily beside the door, so he is no longer in anyone’s line of sight.  Then he moves along the wall until he reaches the other door.  Its security is much more advanced than the retinal scan he bypassed.  He supposes one of the people at the door might be useful here, but decides he doesn’t have time for that.

He ducks again when more shots are fired in his direction.  A grenade rolls his way and he smiles, picking it up and tossing it at the door before twisting out of the way as it goes off.  When the smoke clears, he sees that the door is mostly intact but significantly damaged.  He takes a running start and then kicks it down.  Pleased, he jumps inside and presses his back against the wall immediately inside.  As expected, the walls are thick and bulletproof.  Though the security forces continue to fire at him, he is not in immediate danger.

Inside the room, there is a desk.  It is empty, and contains large windows that look out onto a section of the roof.  He walks over to the desk and rifles through it quickly and efficiently.  He finds what he’s seeking – a file on the machine they used.  It’s in more detail than his file, including listing the men involved in its creation and maintenance.  The security team is moving into the room beyond, thinking they have him trapped.  He ignores them and searches the rest of the room briefly for anything else that might be useful.  Then he places charges around the room, thinking that some of this intel is certainly available in other forms than paper files, but he will destroy it nonetheless.

Satisfied, he walks over to the windows and covers his face with his arm while he kicks out one of them.  Glass flies everywhere for a moment, but then he has made himself an acceptable exit.  Gunfire comes from the irreparable door behind him, and he jumps outside, pressing the button on his belt as he goes.  First, all he hears is a distant rumble, then the noise increases as the explosions grow closer.  The security team starts shouting again, having been relatively covert in the interim.

He runs across the roof to the helicopter pad as the building begins to shake.  The load-bearing walls have been destroyed, and it will not stand much longer.  The men inside will likely perish, but that wasn’t his goal.  All the information contained here will be gone very soon.  Sitting on the helicopter pad is an airplane of some sort.  He isn’t familiar with the name of this model, but it will certainly suit his purpose.  He wrenches the hatch open and climbs inside.

Once inside the relative darkness and safety of the machine, he takes stock of himself.  His heartbeat is slightly elevated, but hardly noticeable.  His breathing is similar, and he slowly surveys the inside to ensure he is truly alone.  Then he goes to the cockpit and takes off, just as the building is collapsing.  Some of the men have come up and are shooting at or pounding on the walls of the plane.  He ignores them.

The sun has just disappeared behind the distant hills when he reaches a comfortable altitude for cruising.  He pulls out the phone Natalia gave him and responds to her earlier message.  Then he settles back to make his way to the next location.


	15. How Many You Betray, You've Taken Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos/comments! They are very much appreciated :)

 

The night is cold and rainy, water drips down his neck uncomfortably as he stands under the eaves.  He is in a small town, waiting outside the local tavern.  Pacing to keep himself warm, he pulls his jacket closer around himself and wishes that he’d brought something more substantial to keep the water off.  But he won’t be here long.  And the weather is unseasonable at any rate, so how was he to know?  Still, being unprepared rankles.  It’s not like him.

Most of the lights in the town are off by this time of night, but the tavern is still well-lit, and likely will be for a few hours.  Which is unfortunate, but he can wait.  He’s waited a long time, what difference does it make to wait a bit longer?  His right hand feels very cold, his gloves more for concealment than warmth, but he flexes it continually to keep the blood flowing and return some of his body heat to it.  To pass the time, he thinks over what he might say, what he will do.  Planning ahead. 

He wonders if he should check in with Natalia.  She likes to hear from him every few days.  She teases that she will team up with Steve and Sam Wilson and track him down if he goes too long without letting her know he’s okay.  He believes her.  He isn’t sure he’s convinced that the three of them would be able to find him if he didn’t want them to, but he doesn’t want to take that chance.  It’s not time yet.  They can wait.  As he is waiting.

Spying is normality taken to extremes; spying is waiting, Natalia told him at one point.  He knows that; he knows most of his time out of cryo was spent patiently waiting for something.  And being in cryo was arguably just waiting.  But he likes how Natalia says things.  She’s been taken apart and put herself back together, and manages her life just fine.  He hopes he’ll someday be able to do that, too.

Finally, the lights begin winking out as the last patrons stumble home, cursing the rain.  He slips into the alley nearby so his loitering will be less likely to be noticed.  After a while, all the lights have been turned off and the street is dark.  Carefully looking around him, he walks across the street and down the alley next to the tavern.  There is a door.  He picks the lock deftly, using his left hand so his stiff human fingers are not an issue.  Then he slides through the doorway and presses the door shut behind him.  It clicks and he stands in the darkness, giving himself time for his eyes to adjust.  It’s late.  Or early, depending on your point of view.

Moving very slowly, he makes his way down the narrow corridor and into the main bar area.  The chairs are neatly stacked on top of the tables, the floor freshly swept.  Continuing deeper into the building, he finds a door in front of a staircase.  It is also locked, but he manages to get through it soon enough.  The upstairs is dark, and he waits at the bottom of the stairs to be sure there is no movement.  He doesn’t want to be interrupted.

Satisfied, he makes his way up.  Several people live here.  He is only seeking one of them.  So he must be very quiet to ensure no one else comes to investigate.  And very thorough.  The doors are all closed, though not locked, and he is momentarily at a loss for which one to choose.  Shrugging to himself, he selects one and opens it slowly.  A cursory glance of the room beyond informs him he chose poorly, and he pulls the door shut soundlessly.

On the third try, he’s found the right one.  He slips inside and presses the door back into its frame behind him.  Before him is a small sitting area, with a corridor to the master bedroom and bathroom beyond it.  The bed is occupied.  Warily, he makes his way across the distance of twenty feet or so to arrive beside it.  Taking a deep breath to prepare, he reaches down and fits his flesh hand over the mouth and nose of the sleeper.

The old man on the bed immediately wakes and struggles, but his strength is no match for the former Winter Soldier’s.  His arms flail, and he pins them both to his chest using his metal hand.  It is uncovered, and the glint of it in the moonlight causes the man to freeze, eyes as wide as saucers.  He smiles down at the sign of recognition.

“I’m glad you remember me.  I suppose you are less glad that I remember you,” he says placidly.  The man attempts to speak, but only produces a few grunts.  He frowns down at him.  “Be still.  If our talk goes well, your family will remain as safe in their beds as they think they are.  But if you attract their attention, I’m going to have to do something about it.  There are a lot of people after me, did you know?  People I don’t want to find me.  I don’t want to hurt your family, but I can’t let them take me again.  Do you understand?”  The man nods emphatically.  “Good.”  He draws his hand away, very relieved when the old man does not immediately cry out for help.

“How did you find me?” he whispers instead.

Releasing the old man’s arms, he takes a step back.  “You were in my file.”

“You weren’t supposed to have access to your records,” the man says.

He laughs soundlessly, mirthlessly.  “I certainly wasn’t granted access.”

The old man has the decency to look apologetic.  “You aren’t what we thought you were.”

He frowns.  “What are you saying?”

“We thought you were… in a vegetative state.  We were told getting you to do anything was an improvement for you.  We didn’t know…  I didn’t know they made you that way,” the man tells him, pleading.

A cold smile spreads across his face.  “Do you think that justifies what you did?”

The man sits up, upset.  “Please, I have a family,” he begins.

“So did I,” he snarls, and backhands him.

Rubbing his cheek with terror in his eyes, the old man mumbles an apology.

“Answer my question,” he replies coldly, under control again.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Good.  I’m glad you understand that.”

“What now?” the man whispers, looking anywhere but at him.

He sighs.  “If they find me…  There are few men on earth who can do what you can.  They know who you are, where they can find you.  And their methods are much more… persuasive than mine.  So you know why I’m here.”

Tears stream down his face as he nods.  “Won’t you let me say goodbye first?”

He shakes his head.  “I can’t do that.  But they won’t know what you’ve done, who you were when you were a young man.”

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Pulling an empty syringe out of his belt, he motions for the man to lie back.  He does so.  Then, very carefully, he inserts the needle into his arm and presses on the hammer.  It’s possible they won’t think it’s a heart attack, that there was some foul play involved.  But it’s not a bad way to go, and his family won’t be too horrified in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” the man mumbles to him, and he pauses.

“I know.  I knew you were, then,” he adds, and turns away.

 

The encounter makes him feel sick.  Attacking bases he understands, can deal with.  But to attack a single person, an old man who is defenseless, upsets him.  The man did terrible things to him, but he wasn’t cruel.  Just scientific.  Cold, detached, and clinical.  Like people usually were with him.  Still, it is too much of a risk for him to be left alive; not after the whispers of his location on HYDRAs secure servers.  Not when they know where he is and what he can rebuild for them.   He retired a long time ago, quit because he didn’t believe in what HYDRA wanted.  So he’d been merciful.  More than HYDRA would have been.

But he wasn’t the only person from the file that he’d resolved to find.  And hopefully the others would be more satisfying, instead of making him feel like he was just saving his own sorry ass.  Which he supposes wasn’t accurate; he may have been the most valuable asset, but the methods used on him were certainly used on others.  And he can’t allow that to continue.  So he leaves the sleepy little town, thinking wistfully what it must be like to live here, and makes his way toward his next target.

It takes some time to reach.  He checks in with Natalia, like he knows he should.  He has a feeling that she relays his messages to Steve, because news of Captain America’s movements has ceased and he seems to have returned to New York.  To Avengers’ Tower.  He wonders if he will have to join him there if he wants to see his old friend again, or if there will be somewhere a little more private.  Though the Stark boy has done quite a bit to keep the place secure and relatively secretive, the media is very interested in the goings-on of their heroes.  And he doesn’t want to try to sneak inside without being noticed.  It doesn’t matter, he decides.  When he’s ready, he can ask Natalia to set up a meet.  She seems more than willing to do so.

When he lands, he restocks his supplies as well as he can, and prepares himself for a more familiar kind of mission.  He knows he was occasionally called upon to kill old men in their beds, some high-ranking officials usually, but it was not how they preferred to use him.  More dangerous targets were his missions.  He doesn’t know when or how these things were decided, but most of the missions he can remember were similar.  In any case, he will need a lot of ammo for this one, and probably some grenades.  It’s going to get messy.


	16. My Head Is Filled With Disease, My Skin Is Begging You Please

 

Most of the people who made him what he is are dead now.  Many are long dead.  Some he killed, but not a significant amount.  He’s read his file, looked into each person mentioned therein (often with some help from Natalia).  And he knows that there is one person who he must find if he wants to be safe.  Even now, it is apparent that the man is looking for him, sending men out to find the lost Winter Soldier.  Some speculation suggests that he died on the helicarrier, but the man knows that it takes more than that to kill their perfect weapon.  He had survived a great fall when they found him, after all.

Unlike the others, the man is not retired, is not formerly associated with HYDRA.  He’s still in it, and will be well-protected.  His current location is generally not accessible, but Natalia always impresses him.  She says he won’t be there long, so he’ll have to hurry.  He arrives within ten hours of her message, and studies the blueprints she was able to obtain.  It occurs to him that he would not have been the asset he was without his handlers, but she seems able to do as much as he does on her own.  Well, he may be a bit deadlier, a little more precise a weapon, but she’s just as effective.  It seems strange that they continue to run into each other like they have.

Carefully, he fills his belt pouches and pockets with as many grenades and full magazines as he can, leaving very little of his supplies on the plane.  It’s unfortunate that he hasn’t rested more recently, but he knows he won’t get any rest now if he tries.  Besides, it is a few hours before dawn and that is when bases are the most vulnerable.  At least, in his experience.  It is possible that they know this and have taken steps to protect themselves.  In any case, no time like the present.

He’s wearing his Winter Soldier uniform.  It is surprisingly comfortable, consider he’s sure no one was worried about that when they designed it for him.  He wants the man to know who’s coming for him, though he also thinks it might serve him in other ways.  The Winter Soldier was HYDRA’s asset; it’s likely they won’t shoot him on sight.  He knows he was erratic and unstable at various points in his career, and perhaps they will think that is the issue.  Not that he’s no longer theirs.  It’s worth a try, anyway.

It is time.  He’s ready, and there’s no point in stalling.  If he doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to, he reminds himself.  But he wants to do this.  He wants his revenge, what little he can get seventy years late.  The base is not like most of the others he has visited in recent weeks.  It is not underground beneath a city, or hidden in the top floor of an office.  No, it is very old, and out in the middle of nowhere.  There is no reason for it to be found, and it is buried deep enough to survive most any attack.  It is very secure.

As he walks, he tries to remember what the bases the Howling Commandos attacked were like.  He remembers long hours of planning before a mission, the camaraderie of the men, but the attacks themselves were fast and chaotic and hard to follow.  He’s had a lifetime of learning to comprehend pandemonium more quickly than his opponents, though, so he doubts that would be a problem now.  The memories of his missions as the Soldier seem much calmer, much more comprehensible despite the fact that they were usually more violent.

The base is largely underground, though the entrance is obvious.  There is a runway to allow for ease of escape.  And arrival, he supposes.  There is a plane there now, waiting.  He does reconnaissance, more out of habit than anything else; he knows what he is walking into.  There are no secret ways in, no side passage for him to use.  Waiting, again.  Waiting for someone to come out or go in so he can sneak passed the defenses.  He is patient.

After a while, a jeep drives up.  A woman climbs out of the driver’s side, and fetches a bound man from the backseat before heading toward the door.  The prisoner is larger than his captor, but looks frightened.  He watches them through the scope from his rifle, holding his breath as she enters a code into the panel and the large doors swing slowly open.  She pulls her prisoner back to the jeep and drives it inside the base.  He runs, evading the cameras he knows are there, and manages to get inside just as the doors swing shut.  They took their time; he wonders if there is something faulty in their programming.

Once inside, he quickly ducks behind the nearest cover, a pile of crates, and breathes very slowly while he listens.  The woman is arguing with someone, punctuating her statements by shaking her prisoner at the man who argues with her.  They are sufficiently distracted, so he carefully looks around before slipping away.  Once he is away from the door, he finds a corridor and walks down it, going deeper into the labyrinthine structure.

The floor plans are not complete, or at least not up-to-date, and he must backtrack a few times.  Evading those who work here is a challenge.  The sight of so many HYDRA agents is disheartening; their old adage appears true, and this place looks to be thriving.  Well, he will do what he can to put a dent in their recovery.  He may not be able to permanently rid the world of HYDRA, much as he’d like to, at least not by himself, but he will continue what Steve and Natalia started almost a year ago.

Some areas of the base are more modern, but most are unfaced concrete on all sides.  It feels a little close at times, and he must pause to relax before continuing on his search.  Finally, he has untangled the huge place enough to find some labs.  People are working in them, but scientists are focused and do not notice someone sneaking by.  He ascertains what he can of their projects, but doesn’t linger.  That’s not why he’s here.

He’s reached a more modern section, then, and finds offices near the labs.  Early morning as it is, these are largely empty.  Only a few people are doing HYDRA’s good work at this time of day, he supposes.  There are many computer consoles that he considers inspecting, but decides against it.  He doesn’t have the time, and attempting to gather information from them may reveal his presence before he’d like.  He finds his way into the largest office and settles down to wait.

 

The office area remains silent for a long time.  Finally, people begin stirring.  He tenses, forcing himself not to think of how he will get out of here with so many more agents wandering around.  But he pushes that away.  Has he not done this before?  Of course he has.  He may not remember details, but he’s been in far worse situations and gotten out of them.  Not that he doesn’t have cause for concern, but nothing has indicated he should abort the mission.

Footsteps are approaching.  At last.  He tenses, ready, in his hiding place.  Peering carefully out, he sees the man he was hoping to see.  But then he sees that the man is not alone, and slides back, out of sight.  The man is talking, arguing, with the woman from before.  He listens for a few moments before deeming their conversation irrelevant.  He waits.  Finally, the woman leaves and the man remains.

As quickly as he can, he jumps out and wraps his arm, the left one, around the man’s shoulders as he presses his knife against his throat.  “Do you remember me?” he asks dispassionately.

The man’s eyes roll up to stare at him, fear pricking behind them.  “Yes,” he murmurs, one hand slowly moving toward his desk.

Angling himself easily, he kicks the hand up enough to catch it with his left and press it against its owner’s chest.  “Next time, I’ll use my knife.  And we’ll see if you can get any prosthetics like this,” he hisses, squeezing until the man gasps in pain.

“I’m sure things have been very confusing for you, but I am very glad you’re back.  We can get you feeling back to normal right away,” the man tells him soothingly.

He blinks, fingers loosening for only a moment.  “That’s not why I’m here,” he says flatly.

“I must admit I’m surprised to see you.  We thought you were dead.  It’s wonderful to see you again,” the man tried again, smiling disarmingly.

With some concentration, he manages not to react this time.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Have you?” the man’s eyes glint, and he becomes convinced that he knows what he has been doing the last few months.  What he did just a few days earlier to a former colleague.

“You’re not going to leave this room alive,” he snarls.

“Neither are you,” the man replies affably.  “What are you waiting for?”

“Information.  I know you have the original copies of all our files.  All your little experiments.  I want them.”

The man smiles.  “Why?  So you can do some of your own?”

“So I can destroy them,” he snaps, pressing his knife harder against his throat.

“You think I just leave those lying around my office?”  The man is laughing at him.

Twisting, he swings the man out of his chair and against the wall, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.  Then he’s on him again, pressing him against the concrete.  “I know they’re here,” he replies.

“You’re going to kill me anyway, so why should I help you?” the man asks calmly.

“Because I haven’t decided how I’m going to kill you yet.”

“Oh, Sergeant Barnes.  You forget, I know you better than you know yourself.  You’d never make someone suffer more than you had to.  You won’t do anything worse to me than you did to my old friend.”

“That’s not me anymore,” he answers calmly, then drops the man to his knees.  He pulls his arm behind his head until the joint pops and the man cries out, much like he did when Steve did the same to him.  Then he picks him up by the throat and tosses him across the room before following and slamming him against the wall again.  “Where are they?” he demands.

The man doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t expect him to.  His eyes, however, betray him as he glances to the other side of the room.  Warily, he moves them over there and finds a safe.  He opens it, taking a few tries and some brute force, and finds the files he seeks.  Then he slits the man’s throat, once and for all.

Tucking the files carefully around his person, he is startled by a knock at the door.  A woman’s voices asks after the man, and he swears quietly.  Then he slips back into his hiding place and waits while she enters, and screams, and an alarm is sounded.  They search for him while he continues to wait patiently.  Eventually, people come to clean up the body and he decides it is safe to emerge when they leave.

Moving silently through the hallways, he makes his way carefully back toward the door.  There are far more people at work now and he must be very careful to avoid them.  But he must make a mistake somehow, because suddenly the alarms are blaring again and agents are running and they’ve spotted him.  He flees, and brings down a significant number of them when cornered, but he’s trapped.  They bring him to one of the labs and he is strapped in a chair.  And all he can think of is that he wishes he would have called Natalia one last time.


	17. I'm On My Hands and Knees, I Want So Much to Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has commented or given kudos! Part 2 will be starting tomorrow, probably :)

 

He knows that he’s destroyed the machinery that they want to use on him.  The working models, the scientists who made it, most of the files on how to make it again.  So he knows he is in a bad place, in trouble, but he also knows that he likely has some time before they can turn him back into their weapon.  Still, he is drugged and confused.  People walk in and out of the room he is in, speaking in disturbed tones.  He cannot focus on what they are saying.  His fingers move when he commands them to, but he lacks the strength to lift his arms or move his legs enough to break the restraints.  So he holds still and waits.

Eventually, he becomes more coherent, but takes care not to make this obvious.  Fewer people are moving around the room now, and he wonders if he might have just imagined it before.  There are guards; he can hear the creak of their armor as they shift their weight out of his line of sight.  He waits until he is relatively certain that there are exactly four of them.  Then he throws himself at the straps holding him down and manages to flip the chair forward, landing on his feet.  He rips free of his restraints and flings the chair at the guards.  Two of them are struck, the other two open fire on him.

Unsurprisingly, his weapons cache was removed from him while he was under.  But he doesn’t need it.  Blocking shots with his left arm, he charges at the guards.  In a matter of moments, they are all incapacitated.  One of them managed to stick a knife in his side, however, and he pulls on the knife tentatively before deciding to leave it there.  Until he can staunch the wound properly.  He gathers the weapons and ammo of the guards and listens carefully for anyone approaching to investigate the noise.  Nothing.  It sets him on edge.

Silently, he opens the door and checks out the hall.  No sign of movement.  He isn’t sure where he is, which is concerning.  The underground facility is certainly large enough for him to be lost for hours.  And he doesn’t have hours, not with a hole in his side.  Though he wants very much to get moving, he goes back inside the room and locks the door before addressing his wound.  He tears some cloth from one of the guard’s trousers into long strips, which he fastens around himself as soon as he’s gritted his teeth and pulled the knife out.  A hiss escapes him as he tightens the makeshift bandages, and he decides it will do for now.  Stitches would likely be better, but he doesn’t think he can stand to wait in here that long, even if he could find a needle and thread.

Feeling a little better, he leaves the place at last and sets off down the hallway.  He can’t tell which way he is going, but he also doesn’t know where he is, so it’s moot.  Just keep moving, he tells himself.  Eventually, he will find his way out, he is certain.  The base is under high alert and everyone he sees is armed.  He knows they will find the guards and then begin searching for him; it’s only a matter of time.  Avoiding these agents even without them knowing their asset is escaping is a challenge.  He’s lost a lot of blood and the effects of the drug haven’t completely worn off.

He must continually backtrack as he finds himself in dead ends, and panic starts to set in.  The strain is starting to get to him, and he wonders if perhaps he should just find a hiding place and wait.  But he doesn’t think they will stop looking any time soon, and he doesn’t want to bleed out here.  Which is why he is almost relieved when he is spotted and cornered by a group of special agents by the looks of them.  He brings half of them down before they shoot him with a tranq gun.

 

This time, when he wakes, he’s laying down.  Strapped down again, and he can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu.  He considers his options, but feels very tired.  Moving is difficult, so he lays still.  When he shifts his weight, he can feel something pull on his side.  A grim smile flickers across his face as he realizes they’ve already given him stitches.  They certainly intend to keep their asset in the best condition, he thinks bitterly.  Not that it will matter.  He’ll die before he’ll let them send him out again.  It’s just helpful to be patched up before he tries to escape again.

The ground beneath him shakes slightly and he can feel the sound of an explosion in his chest rather than his ears.  He frowns, perplexed.  He can tell, despite his view of only the ceiling, that there are people running and barking orders and alarms going off in the hallway somewhere below his feet.  He smiles groggily.  Perhaps he didn’t need to get a message to Natalia after all.

After a while, things quiet down, and he waits, as always.  He feels confused and strange faces appear in his vision before vanishing as he recalls events and people from his previous lives.  It’s a tangled mess and he cannot follow it, but he clings to the feeling that he’s been on his back like this, awaiting his fate, twice before and once was saved from it.  So he has a fifty-fifty chance of being saved again.  And, from the sounds of things, he’s pretty sure the odds are a little more in his favor.

Another face floats above him, and it takes him a moment to realize it is more tangible than the others.  Red hair frames it, and she smiles down at him, looking relieved when he makes eye contact.  “Hello, James,” she says casually.

“Natalia,” he replies hoarsely.

Her face disappears and he can feel hands removing the straps.  More than just one set.  When he sits up, he is not surprised to find Steve there, taking a step back as if uncertain of his reception.  He smiles tentatively.  Behind him, another man, Sam Wilson, is standing, keeping an eye out down the hallway.

“Hello, Steve,” he says, his voice rough from more than just the drugs in his system.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve replies, unable to keep his smile from growing.

“Yes, hello all around.  Can we get out of here, please?” the man, Sam, interrupts, but he gives him a quick smile as well.

He swings himself off of the gurney quickly, wincing as the movement pulls on his new stitches.  His legs are weak, and he holds onto the bed while Natalia puts a steadying hand on his shoulder.  “Let’s go,” he says.

Walking is difficult, but Natalia and Steve wait on either side of him to help if he loses his balance.  Sam follows behind, watching for anyone pursuing.  He doesn’t know the way out, but they seem to, and he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other until suddenly they are outside.  A quinjet is it waiting; all the other vehicles have been damaged.  Natalia and Steve help him up the ramp and onto one of the benches that line the walls behind the cockpit.  He sits down heavily, then stretches out.  Soon, he is asleep again.

 

When he awakens, he is aware of someone sitting near his head.  He looks up sharply, but doesn’t move.  His head aches horribly.  Natalia smiles down at him when she notices his slight movement.  “Need a drink?” she asks lightly.  He nods, sitting up as she hands him a water bottle.  He drinks thirstily, somewhat disappointed not to feel immediately better like before.  She is watching him carefully.

“What is it?” he asks, glancing around.  Steve and Sam must be in the cockpit, for they are alone.

“That was very reckless,” she tells him seriously.

He smiles.  “Well, you know, if you want to take down an entire organization, you sometimes have to be a bit reckless,” he answers.

“That’s what I’ve always said,” Steve’s voice interrupts them, and he glances up sharply at the man standing in the doorway.

“Always?” Natalia asks, looking to him for confirmation.

Steve shrugs.  “Well, since that’s what I was trying to do,” he answers affably, looking at her intently.

“Hmm.  Well, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about,” she says, rising gracefully.  “I guess we can talk about that dinner you offered later,” she adds with a wink before slipping passed Steve.

Obviously perplexed, Steve looks back at her and then at his friend.  “Dinner?”

He shrugs, looking at the floor.  “I offered to take her to dinner last time I saw her,” he explains quietly.

To his surprise, Steve lets out a chuckle.  “You were always good with women,” he says, shaking his head and moving forward to sit across from him.

“Was I?”

Steve nods, looking serious again.  “What do you remember?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.  “A great deal of things, but nothing whole.  Just bits and pieces.”

Steve nods again, as though this is what he was expecting.  He looks down at his feet, scuffing them like a child for a moment, clearly deliberating about something.  “Where do you want us to let you off?” he says at last.

He frowns, looking downward.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you…  Do you want to come home with us?” Steve asks hesitantly.

“Where’s home?”

“New York, of course.”

“Avenger’s Tower?” he presses.

“Yes.  Is that a problem?” Steve asks, looking worried.

He bites his lip.  “I’m not an Avenger.  I’m not a hero.”

“Bucky,” Steve begins painfully.  “You were a hero.  You can be again.  I don’t…  I don’t want to have to worry about you anymore,” he adds, entreatingly.

“You won’t worry if I’m underfoot,” he says emotionlessly.

Steve shakes his head, looking confused.  “I just…  I’d like to have you nearby, like… like it used to be,” he tries to explain, haltingly.

Holding back a smile, he glances toward the cockpit.  “Will Natalia be there?” he asks innocently.

Steve’s confusion grows a moment before a hesitant smile breaks through.  “Yes.”

“I think I’d enjoy a visit, for a while.  Make sure everyone’s treating my oldest friend right,” he adds, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him in an overly casual display.

A grin spreads across Steve’s face.  “Great!  I’m sure you’ll love it there.”

“I’m sure I will, too,” he says sincerely, without the bravado of his last statement.

 

\- end of Part I -


End file.
